GIFT  OF 
M      ti 


LOUISIANA 


LOUISIANA 


BY 

FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 

AUTHOK  OF  "HAWORTH'S"  "THAT  LASS  o'  LOWRIE'S,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 
CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S     SONS 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY 
l88o 


,£ 


COPYRIGHT  BY 
FRANCES    HODGSON   BURNETT, 

1880. 
(All  rights  reserved.) 


TROW'S 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  Co., 
201-213  I'last  izt/t  St,, 

NKW    YORK. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGB 

LOUISIANA, i 


CHAPTER  II. 
WORTH, 16 

CHAPTER  III. 
"HE  is  DIFFERENT," 27 

CHAPTER  IV. 
A  NEW  TYPE. 35 

CHAPTER  V. 
"I  HAVE  HURT  You," 41 

CHAPTER  VI. 
THE  ROAD  TO  THE  RIGHT,  .        .  ...          ci 


436917 


vi  CONTEXTS. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

PAGft 

"  SHE  AIN-T  YERE," 58 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
"  NOTHING  HAS  HURT  You,"      .....          76 

CHAPTER  IX. 
'•DON'T  YE,  LOUISIANNY  ?" 85 

CHAPTER  X. 
THE  GREAT  WORLD,     .        .        .        ...        .          91 

CHAPTER  XL 
A  RUSTY  NAIL, 98 

CHAPTER  XII. 
44  MEBBE,"     .  103 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
A  NEW  PLAN, 112 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
CONFESSIONS, 121 

CHAPTER  XV. 
"  IANTHY  ! "  .         .......      133 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

PAGE 

DON'T  DO  NO  ONE  A  ONJESTICE,"     ....         140 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
LEAK, 145 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
HE  KNEW  THAT  I  LOVED  You,"     .        .        .        .        157 


LOUISIANA. 


CHAPTER   I. 

LOUISIANA. 

OLIVIA  FERROL  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  her 
hands  folded  upon  her  lap.  People  passed  and 
repassed  her  as  they  promenaded  the  long  "  gal 
lery,"  as  it  was  called ;  they  passed  in  couples,  in 
trios  ;  they  talked  with  unnecessary  loudness, 
they  laughed  at  their  own  and  each  other's  jokes ; 
they  flirted,  they  sentimentalized,  they  criticised 
each  other,  but  none  of  them  showed  any  special 
interest  in  Olivia  Ferrol,  nor  did  Miss  Ferrol,  on 
her  part,  show  much  interest  in  them. 

She  had  been  at  Oakvale  Springs  for  two  weeks. 
She  was  alone,  out  of  her  element,  and  knew  no 
body.  The  fact  that  she  was  a  New  Yorker,  and 
had  never  before  been  so  far  South,  was  rather 
against  her.  On  her  arrival  she  had  been  glanced 
over  and  commented  upon  with  candor. 
i 


LOUISIANA. 

"  She  is  a  Yankee/'  said  the  pretty  and  re 
markably  youthful-looking  mother  of  an  apparent 
ly  grown-up  family  from  New  Orleans.  "You 
can  see  it." 

And  though  the  remark  was  not  meant  to  be 
exactly  severe,  Olivia  felt  that  it  was  very  severe, 
indeed,  under  existing  circumstances.  She  heard 
it  as  she  was  giving  her  orders  for  breakfast  to 
her  own  particular  jet-black  and  highly  excitable 
waiter,  and  she  felt  guilty  at  once  and  blushed, 
hastily  taking  a  sip  of  ice-water  to  conceal  her 
confusion.  When  she  went  upstairs  afterward  she 
wrote  a  very  interesting  letter  to  her  brother  in 
New  York,  and  tried  to  make  an  analysis  of  her 
sentiments  for  his  edification. 

"  You  advised  me  to  come  here  because  it 
would  be  novel  as  well  as  beneficial,"  she  wrote. 
"  And  it  certainly  is  novel.  I  think  I  feel  like  a 
Pariah — a  little.  I  am  aware  that  even  the  best 
bred  and  most  intelligent  of  them,  hearing  that  I 
have  always  lived  in  New  York,  will  privately  re 
gret  it  if  they  like  me  and  remember  it  if  they 
dislike  me.  Good-natured  and  warm-hearted  as 
they  seem  among  themselves,  I  am  sure  it  will  be 
I  who  will  have  to  make  the  advances — if  ad 
vances  are  made — and  I  must  be  very  amiable, 
indeed,  if  I  intend  that  they  shall  like  me." 


LOUISIANA.  3 

But  she  had  not  been  well  enough  at  first  to  be 
in  the  humor  to  make  the  advances,  and  conse 
quently  had  not  found  her  position  an  exciting 
one.  She  had  looked  on  until  she  had  been  able 
to  rouse  herself  to  some  pretty  active  likes  and 
dislikes,  but  she  knew  no  one. 

She  felt  this  afternoon  as  if  this  mild  recreation 
of  looking  on  had  begun  rather  to  pall  upon  her, 
and  she  drew  out  her  watch,  glancing  at  it  with  a 
little  yawn. 

"  It  is  five  o'clock,"  she  said.  "  Very  soon  the 
band  will  make  its  appearance,  and  it  will  bray 
until  the  stages  come  in.  Yes,  there  it  is  !  " 

The  musical  combination  to  which  she  referred 
was  composed  of  six  or  seven  gentlemen  of  color 
who  played  upon  brazen  instruments,  each  in  dif 
ferent  keys  and  different  time.  Three  times  a 
day  they  collected  on  a  rustic  kiosk  upon  the  lawn 
and  played  divers  popular  airs  with  an  intensity, 
fervor,  and  muscular  power  worthy  of  a  better 
cause.  They  straggled  up  as  she  spoke,  took  their 
places  and  began,  and  before  they  had  played 
many  minutes  the  most  exciting  event  of  the  day 
occurred,  as  it  always  did  somewhere  about  this 
hour.  In  the  midst  of  the  gem  of  their  collection 
was  heard  the  rattle  of  wheels  and  the  crack  of 
whips,  and  through  the  rapturous  shouts  of  the 


4  LOUISIANA. 

juvenile  guests,  the  two  venerable,  rickety  stages 
dashed  up  with  a  lumbering  flourish,  and  a  spas 
modic  pretense  of  excitement,  calculated  to  de 
ceive  only  the  feeblest  mind. 

At  the  end  of  the  gallery  they  checked  them 
selves  in  their  mad  career,  the  drivers  making 
strenuous  efforts  to  restrain  the  impetuosity  of  the 
four  steeds  whose  harness  rattled  against  their 
ribs  with  an  unpleasant  bony  sound.  Half  a 
dozen  waiters  rushed  forward,  the  doors  were 
flung  open,  the  steps  let  down  with  a  bang,  the 
band  brayed  insanely,  and  the  passengers  alighted. 
— "  One,  two,  three,  four,"  counted  Olivia  Ferrol, 
mechanically,  as  the  first  vehicle  unburdened  it 
self.  And  then,  as  the  door  of  the  second  was 
opened  :  "  One — only  one  :  and  a  very  young 
one,  too.  Dear  me  !  Poor  girl  !  " 

This  exclamation  might  naturally  have  fallen 
from  any  quick-sighted  and  sympathetic  person. 
The  solitary  passenger  of  the  second  stage  stood 
among  the  crowd,  hesitating,  and  plainly  over 
whelmed  with  timorousness.  Three  waiters  were 
wrestling  with  an  ugly  shawl,  a  dreadful  shining 
valise,  and  a  painted  wooden  trunk,  such  as  is 
seen  in  country  stores.  In  their  enthusiastic  de 
sire  to  dispose  creditably  of  these  articles  they 
temporarily  forgot  the  owner,  who,  after  one  des- 


LOUISIANA.  5 

perate,  timid  glance  at  them,  looked  round  her  in 
vain  for  succor.  She  was  very  pretty  and  very 
young  and  very  ill-dressed — her  costume  a  bucolic 
travesty  on  prevailing  modes.  She  did  not  know 
where  to  go,  and  no  one  thought  of  showing  her  ; 
the  loungers  about  the  office  stared  at  her  ;  she 
began  to  turn  pale  with  embarrassment  and  timid 
ity.  Olivia  Ferrol  left  her  chair  and  crossed  the 
gallery.  She  spoke  to  a  servant  a  little  sharply  : 

"  Why  not  show  the  young  lady  into  the  par 
lor  ?  "  she  said. 

The  girl  heard,  and  looked  at  her  helplessly, 
but  with  gratitude.  The  waiter  darted  forward 
with  hospitable  rapture. 

.  "  Dis  yeah's  de  way,  miss,"  he  said,  "  right 
inter  de  'ception-room.  Foller  me,  ma'am." 

Olivia  returned  to  her  seat.  People  were  re 
garding  her  with  curiosity,  but  she  was  entirely 
oblivious  of  the  fact. 

"  That  is  one  of  them,"  she  was  saying,  men 
tally.  "  That  is  one  of  them,  and  a  very  interest 
ing  type  it  is,  too." 

'  To  render  the  peculiarities  of  this  young  wo 
man  clearer,  it  may  be  well  to  reveal  here  some 
thing  of  her  past  life  and  surroundings.  Her 
father  had  been  a  literary  man,  her  mother  an  il 
lustrator  of  books  and  magazine  articles.  From 


6  LOUISIANA. 

her  earliest  childhood  she  had  been  surrounded 
by  men  and  women  of  artistic  or  literary  occupa 
tions,  some  who  were  drudges,  some  who  were 
geniuses,  some  who  balanced  between  the  two 
extremes,  and  she  had  unconsciously  learned  the 
tricks  of  the  trade.  She  had  been  used  to  people 
who  continually  had  their  eyes  open  to  anything 
peculiar  and  interesting  in  human  nature,  who 
were  enraptured  by  the  discovery  of  new  types  of 
men,  women,  and  emotions.  Since  she  had  been 
left  an  orphan  she  had  lived  with  her  brother, 
who  had  been  reporter,  editor,  contributor,  critic, 
one  after  the  other,  until  at  last  he  had  estab 
lished  a  very  enviable  reputation  as  a  brilliant, 
practical  young  fellow,  who  knew  his  business, 
and  had  a  fine  career  open  to  him.  So  it  was 
natural  that,  having  become  interested  in  the  gen 
eral  friendly  fashion  of  dissecting  and  studying 
every  scrap  of  human  nature  within  reach,  she 
had  followed  more  illustrious  examples,  and  had 
become  very  critical  upon  the  subject  of  "  types  " 
herself.  During  her  sojourn  at  Oakvale  she  had 
studied  the  North  Carolinian  mountaineer  "  type  v 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  an  amateur.  She  had 
talked  to  the  women  in  sunbonnets  who  brought 
fruit  to  the  hotel,  and  sat  on  the  steps  and  floor 
of  the  galleries  awaiting  'the  advent  of  customers 


LOUISIANA.  7 

with  a  composure  only  to  be  equaled  by  the  calm 
ness  of  the  noble  savage  ;  she  had  walked  and 
driven  over  the  mountain  roads,  stopping  at  way 
side  houses  and  entering  into  conversation  with 
the  owners  until  she  had  become  comparatively 
well  known,  even  in  the  space  of  a  fortnight,  and 
she  hfd  taken  notes  for  her  brother  until  she  had 
roused  him  to  sharing  her  own  interest  in  her  dis 
coveries. 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  find  a  great  deal  of  mate 
rial  here,"  she  wrote  to  him.  "  You  see  how  I  have 
fallen  a  victim  to  that  dreadful  habit  of  looking 
at  everything  in  the  light  of  material.  A  man  is 
no  longer  a  man — he  is  '  material  '  ;  sorrow  is  not 
sorrow,  joy  is  not  joy — it  is  '  material."  There  is 
something  rather  ghoulish  in  it.  I  wonder  if 
anatomists  look  at  people's  bodies  as  we  do  at 
their  minds,  and  if  to  them  every  one  is  a  '  sub 
ject.'  At  present  I  am  interested  in  a  species  of 
girl  I  have  discovered.  Sometimes  she  belongs 
to  the  better  class — the  farmers,  who  have  a  great 
deal  of  land  and  who  are  the  rich  men  of  the  com 
munity, — sometimes  she  lives  in  a  log  cabin  with 
a  mother  who  smokes  and  chews  tobacco,  but  in 
either  case  she  is  a  surprise  and  a  mystery.  She 
is  always  pretty,  she  is  occasionally  beautiful,  and 
in  spite  of  her  house,  her  people,  her  education  or 


8  LOUISIANA. 

want  of  it,  she  is  instinctively  a  refined  and  deli 
cately  susceptible  young  person.  She  has  always 
been  to  some  common  school,  where  she  has  writ 
ten  compositions  on  sentimental  or  touching  sub 
jects,  and  when  she  belongs  to  the  better  class  she 
takes  a  fashion  magazine  and  tries  to  make  her 
dresses  like  those  of  the  ladies  in  the  colored 
plates,  and,  I  may  add,  frequently  fails.  I  could 
write  a  volume  about  her,  but  I  wont.  When 
your  vacation  arrives,  come  and  see  for  yourself." 
It  was  of  this  class  Miss  Ferrol  was  thinking  when 
she  said  :  "  That  is  one  of  them,  and  a  very  inter- 
ing  type  it  is,  too." 

When  she  went  in  to  the  dining-room  to  par 
take  of  the  six  o'clock  supper,  she  glanced  about 
her  in  search  of  the  new  arrival,  but  she  had  not 
yet  appeared.  A  few  minutes  later,  however,  she 
entered.  She  came  in  slowly,  looking  straight 
before  her,  and  trying  very  hard  to  appear  at 
ease.  She  was  prettier  than  before,  and  worse 
dressed.  She  wore  a  blue,  much-ruffled  muslin 
and  a  wide  collar  made  of  imitation  lace.  She 
had  tucked  her  sleeves  up  to  her  elbow  with  a 
band  and  bow  of  black  velvet,  and  her  round, 
smooth  young  arms  were  adorable.  She  looked 
for  a  vacant  place,  and,  seeing  none,  stopped 
short,  as  if  she  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Then 


LOUISIANA.  9 

some  magnetic  attraction  drew  her  eye  to  Olivia 
Ferrol's.  After  a  moment's  pause,  she  moved 
timidly  toward  her. 

"  I — I  wish  a  waiter  would  come,"  she  faltered. 

At  that  moment  one  on  the  wing  stopped  in 
obedience  to  a  gesture  of  Miss  Ferrol's — a  deli 
cate,  authoritative  movement  of  the  head. 

"  Give  this  young  lady  that  chair  opposite  me," 
she  said. 

The  chair  was  drawn  out  with  a  flourish,  the 
girl  was  seated,  and  the  bill  of  fare  was  placed  in 
her  hands. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  astonished 
voice. 

Olivia  smiled. 

"  That  waiter  is  my  own  special  and  peculiar 
property,"  she  said,  "and  I  rather  pride  myself 
on  him." 

But  her  guest  scarcely  seemed  to  comprehend 
her  pleasantry.  She  looked  somewhat  awkward. 

"  I — don't  know  much  about  waiters,"  she 
ventured.  "  I'm  not  used  to  them,  and  I  sup 
pose  they  know  it.  I  never  was  at  a  hotel  be 
fore." 

"  You  will  soon  get  used  to  them,"  returned 
Miss  Ferrol. 

The  girl  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  with  a  ques- 


10  LOUISIANA. 

tioning  appeal.  They  were  the  loveliest  eyes  she 
had  ever  seen,  Miss  Ferrol  thought — large-irised, 
and  with  wonderful  long  lashes  fringing  them  and 
curling  upward,  giving/ them  a  tender,  very  wide- 
open  look.  She  seemed  suddenly  to  gain  cour 
age,  and  also  to  feel  it  her  duty  to  account  for 
herself. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  come  here  alone  if  I  could 
have  got  father  to  come  with  me,"  she  revealed. 
"  But  he  wouldn't  come.  He  said  it  wasn't  the 
place  for  him.  I  haven't  been  very  well  since 
mother  died,  and  he  thought  I'd  better  try  the 
Springs  awhile.  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  it." 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  replied  Miss  Ferrol,  candidly, 
"  but  I  dare  say  you  will  when  you  know  people." 

The  girl  glanced  rapidly  and  furtively  over  the 
crowded  room,  and  then  her  eyes  fell. 

"  I  shall  never  know  them,"  she  said,  in  a  de 
pressed  undertone. 

In  secret  Miss  Ferrol  felt  a  conviction  that  she 
was  right;  she  had  not  been  presented  under  the 
right  auspices. 

"  It  is  rather  clever  and  sensitive  in  her  to  find 
it  out  so  quickly,"  she  thought.  "  Some  girls 
would  be  more  sanguine,  and  be  led  into  blun 
ders." 

They  progressed  pretty  well  during  the  meal. 


LOUISIANA.  II 

When  it  was  over,  and  Miss  Ferrol  rose,  she  be 
came  conscious  that  her  companion  was  troubled 
by  some  new  difficulty,  and  a  second  thought  sug 
gested  to  her  what  its  nature  was. 

"Are  you  going  to  your  room  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl,  with  the  look  of 
helpless  appeal  again.  "  I  don't  know  where  else 
to  go.  I  don't  like  to  go  out  there  "  (signifying 
the  gallery)  "  alone." 

"  Why  not  come  with  me  ?  "  said  Miss  Ferrol. 
"  Then  we  can  promenade  together." 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  with  a  little  gasp  of  relief  and 
gratitude.  "  Don't  you  mind  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  your 
society,"  Miss  Ferrol  answered.  "  I  am  alone, 
too." 

So  they  went  out  together  and  wandered  slowly 
from  one  end  of  the  starlit  gallery  to  the  other, 
winding  their  way  through  the  crowd  that  prom 
enaded,  and,  upon  the  whole,  finding  it  rather 
pleasant. 

"  I  shall  have  to  take  care  of  her,"  Miss  Ferrol 
was  deciding  ;  "  but  I  do  not  think  I  shall  mind 
the  trouble." 

The  thing  that  touched  her  most  was  the  girl's 
innocent  trust  in  her  sincerity — her  taking  for 
granted  that  this  stranger,  who  had  been  polite  to 


12  LOUISIANA. 

her,  had  been  so  not  for  worldly  good  breeding's 
sake,  but  from  true  friendliness  and  extreme  gen 
erosity  of  nature.  Her  first  shyness  conquered, 
she  related  her  whole  history  with  the  unreserve 
of  a  child.  Her  father  was  a  farmer,  and  she  had 
always  lived  with  him  on  his  farm.  He  had  been 
too  fond  of  her  to  allow  her  to  leave  home,  and 
she  had  never  been  "  away  to  school." 

"  He  has  made  a  pet  of  me  at  home,"  she  said. 
"  I  was  the  only  one  that  lived  to  be  over  eight 
years  old.  I  am  the  eleventh.  Ten  died  before  I 
was  born,  and  it  made  father  and  mother  worry  a 
good  deal  over  me — and  father  was  worse  than 
mother.  He  said  the  time  never  seemed  to  come 
when  he  could  spare  me.  He  is  very  good  and  kind 
— is  father,"  she  added,  in  a  hurried,  soft-voiced 
way.  "  He's  rough,  but  he's  very  good  and  kind." 

Before  they  parted  for  the  night  Miss  Ferrol  had 
the  whole  genealogical  tree  by  heart.  They  were 
an  amazingly  prolific  family,  it  seemed.  There 
was  Uncle  Josiah,  who  had  ten  children,  Uncle 
Leander,  who  had  fifteen,  Aunt  Amanda,  who 
had  twelve,  and  Aunt  Nervy,  whose  belongings 
comprised  three  sets  of  twins  and  an  unlimited 
supply  of  odd  numbers.  They  went  upstairs  to 
gether  and  parted  at  Miss  Ferrol's  door,  their 
rooms  being  near  each  other. 


LOUISIANA.  13 

The  girl  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good-night!"  she  said.  "I'm  so  thankful 
I've  got  to  know  you." 

Her  eyes  looked  bigger  and  wider-open  than 
ever  ;  she  smiled,  showing  her  even,  sound,  little 
white  teeth.  Under  the  bright  light  of  the  lamp 
the  freckles  the  day  betrayed  on  her  smooth  skin 
were  not  to  be  seen. 

"Deai  me!"  thought  Miss  Ferrol.  "How 
startlingly  pretty,  in  spite  of  the  cotton  lace  and 
the  dreadful  polonaise  !  " 

She  touched  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Why,  you  are  as  tall  as  I  am  !  "  she  said. 

<c  Yes,"  the  girl  replied,  depressedly  ;  "  but  I'm 
twice  as  broad." 

11  Oh  no — no  such  thing."  And  then,  with  a 
delicate  glance  down  over  her,  she  said — "  It  is 
your  dress  that  makes  you  fancy  so.  Perhaps 
your  dressmaker  does  not  understand  your  fig 
ure," — as  if  such  a  failing  was  the  most  natural 
and  simple  thing  in  the  world,  and  needed  only 
the  slightest  rectifying. 

"  I  have  no  dressmaker,"  the  girl  answered. 
"  I  make  my  things  myself.  Perhaps  that  is  it." 

"  It  is  a  little  dangerous,  it  is  true,"  replied 
Miss  Ferrol.  "  I  have  been  bold  enough  to  try 
it  myself,  and  I  never  succeeded.  I  could  give 


14  LOUISIANA. 

*> 

you  the  address  of  a  very  thorough  woman  if  you 
lived  in  New  York." 

"  But  I  don't  live  there,  you  see.  I  wish  I  did. 
I  never  shall,  though.  Father  could  never  spare 
me." 

Another  slight  pause  ensued,  during  which  she 
looked  admiringly  at  Miss  Ferrol.  Then  she  said 
"  good-night"  again,  and  turned  away. 

But  before  she  had  crossed  the  corridor  she 
stopped. 

"  I  never  told  you  my  name,"  she  said. 

Miss  Ferrol  naturally  expected  she  would  an 
nounce  it  at  once,  but  she  did  not.  An  air  of 
embarrassment  fell  upon  her.  She  seemed  almost 
averse  to  speaking. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Ferrol,  smiling,  "  what  is 
it?" 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  from  the  carpet  as 
she  replied,  unsteadily  : 

"  It's  Louisiana." 

Miss  Ferrol  answered  her  very  composedly  : 

"  The  name  of  the  state  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Father  came  from  there." 

"  But  you  did  not  tell  me  your  surname." 

"Oh!  that  is  Rogers.  You — you  didn't  laugh. 
I  thought  you  would." 

"At    the    first    name?"    replied    Miss    Ferrol. 


LOUISIANA.  15 

"  Oh  no.  It  is  unusual— but  names  often  are. 
And  Louise  is  pretty." 

"So  it  is,"  she  said,  brightening.  "I  never 
thought  of  that.  I  hate  Louisa.  They  will  call 
it  '  Lowizy,' or  '  Lousyanny.'  I  could  sign  my 
self  Louise,  couldn't  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Miss  P'errol  replied. 

And  then  her  prottgte  said  "  good-night "  for 
the  third  time,  and  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WORTH. 

SHE  presented  herself  at  the  bed-room  door 
with  a  timid  knock  the  next  morning  before  break 
fast,  evidently  expecting  to  be  taken  charge  of. 
Miss  Ferrol  felt  sure  she  would  appear,  and  had, 
indeed,  dressed  herself  in  momentary  expectation 
of  hearing  the  knock. 

When  she  heard  it  she  opened  the  door  at  once. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "  I  thought 
you  might  come." 

A  slight  expression  of  surprise  showed  itself  in 
the  girl's  eyes.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that 
she  might  not  come. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied.  "  I  never  could  go 
down  alone  when  there  was  any  one  who  would 
go  with  me." 

There  was  something  on  her  mind,  Miss  Ferrol 
fancied,  and  presently  it  burst  forth  in  a  confiden 
tial  inquiry. 


WORTH.  17 

"  Is  this  dress  very  short-waisted  ?  "  she  asked, 
with  great  earnestness. 

Merciful  delicacy  stood  in  the  way  of  Miss 
Ferrol's  telling  her  how  short-waisted  it  was,  and 
how  it  maltreated  her  beautiful  young  body. 

"  It  is  rather  short-waisted,  it  is  true." 

"  Perhaps,"  the  girl  went  on,  with  a  touch  of 
guileless  melancholy,  "  I  am  naturally  this  shape." 

Here,  it  must  be  confessed,  Miss  Ferrol  forgot 
herself  for  the  moment,  and  expressed  her  indig 
nation  with  undue  fervor. 

"  Perish  the  thought  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Why, 
child  !  your  figure  is  a  hundred  times  better  than 
mine." 

Louisiana  wore  for  a  moment  a  look  of  absolute 
fright. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  no.  Your  fig 
ure  is  magnificent." 

"Magnificent!"  echoed  Miss  Ferrol,  giving 
way  to  her  enthusiasm,  and  indulging  in  figures 
of  speech.  "  Don't  you  see  that  I  am  thin— ab 
solutely  thin.  But  my  things  fit  me,  and  my 
dressmaker  understands  me.  If  you  were  dressed 
as  I  am," — pausing  to  look  her  over  from  head  to 
foot — "  Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed,  pathetically,  "  how 
I  should  like  to  see  you  in  some  of  my  clothes  !  " 

A  tender  chord  was  touched.     A  gentle  sad- 


1 3  LOUISIANA. 

ness,  aroused  by  this  instance  of  wasted  opportu 
nities,  rested  upon  her.  But  instantaneously  she 
brightened,  seemingly  without  any  particular 
cause.  A  brilliant  idea  had  occurred  to  her. 
But  she  did  not  reveal  it. 

"  I  will  wait,"  she  thought,  "  until  she  is  more 
at  her  ease  with  me." 

She  really  was  more  at  her  ease  already.  Just 
this  one  little  scrap  of  conversation  had  done  that. 
She  became  almost  affectionate  in  a  shy  way  be 
fore  they  reached  the  dining-room. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  she  said,  as 
they  nearcd  the  door. 

"  What  is.it?" 

She  held  Miss  Ferrol  back  with  a  light  clasp  on 
her  arm.  Her  air  was  quite  tragic  in  a  small  way. 

"  Please  say  '  Louise,'  when  you  speak  to  me," 
she  said.  "Never  say  '  Miss  Louisiana' — never 
— never!  " 

*'  No,  I  shall  never  say  '  Miss  Louisiana,'  "  her 
companion  answered.  "  How  would  you  like 
'  Miss  Rogers  ?  ' 

"  I  would  rather  have  '  Louise,'  "  she  said,  dis 
appointedly. 

"Well,"  returned  Miss  Ferrol,  "'Louise'  let 
it  be." 

And  "Louise"  it  was  thenceforward.     If  she 


WORTH.  19 

had  not  been  so  pretty,  so  innocent,  and  so  affec 
tionate  and  humble  a  young  creature,  she  might 
have  been  troublesome  at  times  (it  occurred  to 
Olivia  Ferrol),  she  clung  so  pertinaciously  to 
their  chance  acquaintanceship  ;  she  was  so  help 
less  and  desolate  if  left  to  herself,  and  so  inordi 
nately  glad  to  be  taken  in  hand  again.  She  made 
no  new  friends, — which  was  perhaps  natural 
enough,  after  all.  She  had  nothing  in  common 
with  the  young  women  who  played  ten-pins  and 
croquet  and  rode  out  in  parties  with  their  cav 
aliers.  She  was  not  of  them,  and  understood 
them  as  little  as  they  understood  her.  She  knew 
very  well  that  they  regarded  her  with  scornful  tol 
erance  when  they  were  of  the  ill-natured  class, 
and  with  ill-subdued  wonder  when  they  were 
amiable.  She  could  not  play  ten-pins  or  croquet, 
nor  could  she  dance. 

"  What  are  the  men  kneeling  down  for,  and 
why  do  they  keep  stopping  to  put  on  those  queer 
little  caps  and  things  ?  "  she  whispered  to  Miss 
Ferrol  one  night. 

44  They  are  trying  to  dance  a  German,"  replied 
Miss  Ferrol,  "and  the  man  who  is  leading  them 
only  knows  one  figure." 

As  for  the  riding,  she  had  been  used  to  riding 
all  her  life  ;  but  no  one  asked  her  to  join  them, 


20  LOUISIANA. 

and  if  they  had  done  so  she  would  have  been  too 
wise, — unsophisticated  as  she  was, — to  accept  the 
invitation.  So  where  Miss  Ferrol  was  seen  she 
was  seen  also,  and  she  was  never  so  happy  as 
when  she  was  invited  into  her  protector's  room 
and  allowed  to  spend  the  morning  or  evening 
there.  She  would  have  been  content  to  sit  there 
forever  and  listen  to  Miss  Ferrol's  graphic  de 
scription  of  life  in  the  great  world;  The  names  of 
celebrated  personages  made  small  impression  upon 
her.  It  was  revealed  gradually  to  Miss  Ferrol 
that  she  had  private  doubts  as  to  the  actual  exist 
ence  of  some  of  them,  and  the  rest  she  had  never 
heard  of  before. 

"  You  never  read  *  The  Scarlet  Letter  ?  '  "  asked 
her  instructress  upon  one  occasion. 

She  flushed  guiltily. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "Nor — nor  any  of  the 
others." 

Miss  Ferrol  gazed  at  her  silently  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  Then  she  asked  her  a  question  in  a  low 
voice,  specially  mellowed,  so  that  it  might  not 
alarm  her. 

"  Do  you  know  who  John  Stuart  Mill  is  ?  "  she 
said. 

"  No,"  she  replied  from  the  dust  of  humilia 
tion. 


WORTH.  1 

"  Have  you  never  heard—  just  heard—  of  Rus- 
in     " 


"  Nor  of  Michael  Angelo  ?  " 

«  N-no  —  ye-es,  I  think  so  —  perhaps,  but  I  don't 
know  what  he  did." 

"  Do  you,"  she  continued,  very  slowly,  "  do  — 
you  —  know  —  anything  —  about  —  Worth  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing." 

Her  questioner  clasped  her  hands  with  repressed 
emotion. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  ''how  —  how  you  have  been 
neglected  !  " 

She  was  really  depressed,  but  her  protegee  was 
so  much  more  deeply  so  that  she  felt  it  her  duty 
to  contain  herself  and  return  to  cheerfulness. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said.  "  I  will  tell  you 
all  I  know  about  them,  and,"  —  after  a  pause  for 
speculative  thought  upon  the  subject,  —  "by-the- 
by,  it  isn't  much,  and  I  will  lend  you  some 
books  to  read,  and  give  you  a  list  of  some  you 
must  persuade  your  father  to  buy  for  you,  and 
you  will  be  all  right.  It  is  rather  dreadful  not 
to  know  the  names  of  people  and  things  ;  but, 
after  all,  I  think  there  are  very  few  people  who  — 
ahem  !  " 

She  was    checked  here    by  rigid  conscientious 


LOUISIANA 

scruples.  If  she  was  to  train  this  young  mind  in 
the  path  of  learning  and  literature,  she  must  place 
before  her  a  higher  standard  of  merit  than  the 
somewhat  shady  and  slipshod  one  her  eagerness 
had  almost  betrayed  her  into  upholding.  She  had 
heard  people  talk  of  "standards"  and  "ideals," 
and  when  she  was  kept  to  the  point  and  in  regu 
lation  working  order,  she  could  be  very  eloquent 
upon  these  subjects  herself. 

"You  will  have  to  work  very  seriously,"  she 
remarked,  rather  incongruously  and  with  a  rapid 
change  of  position.  "  If  you  wish  to — to  acquire 
anything,  you  must  read  conscientiously  and — and 
with  a  purpose."  She  was  rather  proud  of  that 
last  clause. 

"Must  I?"  inquired  Louise,  humbly.  "I 
should  like  to — if  I  knew  where  to  begin.  Who 
was  Worth  ?  Was  he  a  poet  ?  " 

Miss  Ferrol  acquired  a  fine,  high  color  very 
suddenly. 

"  Oh,"  she  answered,  with  some  uneasiness, 
"you — you  have  no  need  to  begin  with  Worth. 
He  doesn't  matter  so  much — really." 

"I  thought,"  Miss  Rogers  said  meekly,  "that 
you  were  more  troubled  about  my  not  having  read 
what  he  wrote,  than  about  my  not  knowing  any 
of  the  others." 


WORTH.  23 

"  Oh,  no.  You  see — the  fact  is,  he — he  never 
wrote  anything." 

"  What  did  he  do  ?  "  she  asked,  anxious  for  in 
formation. 

"He — it  isn't  'did/  it  is  'does.'  He — makes 
dresses." 

"  Dresses!" 

Tliis  single  word,  but  no  exclamation  point 
could  express  its  tone  of  wild  amazement. 

"Yes." 

"A  man!" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  It  was  embarrass 
ing  at  first.  Then  the  amazement  of  the  unso 
phisticated  one  began  to  calm  itself;  it  gradually 
died  down,  and  became  another  emotion,  merging 
itself  into  interest. 

"Does" — guilelessly  she  inquired — "he  make 
nice  ones^  " 

"Nice!"  echoed  Miss  Ferrol.  "They  are 
works  of  art !  I  have  got  three  in  my  trunk." 

44  O-o-h  !  "  sighed  Louisiana.      "  Oh,  dear  !  " 

Miss  Ferrol  rose  from  her  chair. 

"I  will  show  them  to  you,"  she  said.  "I — I 
should  like  you  to  try  them  on." 

"To  try  them  on  !  "  ejaculated  the  child  in  an 
awe-stricken  tone.  "  Me  ?  " 


24  LOUISIANA. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Ferrol,  unlocking  the  trunk 
and  throwing  back  the  lid.  "  I  have  been  want 
ing  to  see  you  in  them  since  the  first  day  you 
came." 

She  took  them  out  and  laid  them  upon  the  bed 
on  their  trays.  Louise  got  up  from  the  floor  and 
approaching,  reverently  stood  near  them.  There 
was  a  cream-colored  evening-dress  of  soft,  thick, 
close-clinging  silk  of  some  antique-modern  sort; 
it  had  golden  fringe,  and  golden  flowers  embroid 
ered  upon  it. 

"  Look  at  that,"  said  Miss  Ferrol,  softly — even 
religiously. 

She  made  a  mysterious,  majestic  gesture. 

"Come  here,"  she  said.  "You  must  put  it 
on." 

Louise  shrank  back  a  pace. 

"I— oh!  I  daren't,"  she  cried.  "  It  is  too 
beautiful  !  " 

"  Come  here,"  repeated  Miss  Ferrol. 

She  obeyed  timorously,  and  gave  herself  into 
the  hands  of  her  controller.  She  was  so  timid 
and  excited  that  she  trembled  all  the  time  her  toi 
lette  was  being  performed  for  her.  Miss  Ferrol 
went  through  this  service  with  the  manner  of  a 
priestess  officiating  at  an  altar.  She  laced  up  the 
back  of  the  dress  with  the  slender,  golden  cords  ; 


WORTH.  25 

she  arranged  the  antique  drapery  which  wound 
itself  around  in  close  swathing  folds.  There  was 
not  the  shadow  of  a  wrinkle  from  shoulder  to 
hem  :  the  lovely  young  figure  was  revealed  in  all 
its  beauty  of  outline.  There  were  no  sleeves  at 
all,  there  was  not  very  much  bodice,  but  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  effect,  and  this,  it  is  to  be  sup 
posed,  was  the  object. 

'*  Walk  across  the  floor,"  commanded  Miss 
Ferrol. 

Louisiana  obeyed  her. 

"  Do  it  again,"  said  Miss  Ferrol. 

Having  been  obeyed  for  the  second  time, 
her  hands  fell  together.  Her  attitude  and  ex 
pression  could  be  said  to  be  significant  only  of 
rapture. 

"I  said  so!"  she  cried.  "I  said  so!  You 
might  have  been  born  in  New  York  !  " 

It  was  a  grand  climax.  Louisiana  felt  it  to  the 
depths  of  her  reverent  young  heart.  But  she 
could  not  believe  it.  She  was  sure  that  it  was  too 
sublime  to  be  true.  She  shook  her  head  in  depre 
cation. 

"It  is  no  exaggeration,"  said  Miss  Ferrol,  with 
renewed  fervor.  "Laurence  himself,  if  he  were 
not  told  that  you  had  lived  here,  would  never 
guess  it.  I  should  like  to  try  you  on  him." 


26  LOUISIANA. 

"Who — is  he?"  inquired  Louisiana.  "Is  he 
a  writer,  too  ?  " 

"Well,  yes, — but  not  exactly  like  the  others. 
He  is  my  brother." 

It  was  two  hours  before  this  episode  ended. 
Only  at  the  sounding  of  the  second  bell  did  Lou 
isiana  escape  to  her  room  to  prepare  for  dinner. 

Miss  Ferrol  began  to  replace  the  dresses  in  her 
trunk.  She  performed  her  task  in  an  abstracted 
mood.  When  she  had  completed  it  she  stood  up 
right  and  paused  a  moment,  with  quite  a  startled 
air. 

"Dear  me!"  she  exclaimed.  "I — actually 
forgot  about  Ruskin  !  " 


CHAPTER   III. 

"  HE   IS   DIFFERENT." 

THE  same  evening',  as  they  sat  on  one  of  the 
seats  upon  the  lawn,  Miss  Ferrol  became  aware 
several  times  that  Louisiana  was  regarding  her 
with  more  than  ordinary  interest.  She  sat  with 
her  hands  folded  upon  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  her 
face,  and  her  pretty  mouth  actually  a  little  open. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of?  "  Olivia  asked, 
at  length. 

The  girl  started,  and  recovered  herself  with  an 
effort. 

"I — well,  I  was  thinking  about — authors,"  she 
stammered. 

"  Any  particular  author  ?  "  inquired  Olivia,  "  or 
authors  as  a  class  ?  " 

"  About  your  brother  being  one.  I  never 
thought  I  should  see  anyone  who  knew  an  author 
— and  you  are  related  to  one  !  " 

Her  companion's  smile  was  significant  of   im- 


28  LOUISIANA. 

mense  experience.  It  was  plain  that  she  was  so 
accustomed  to  living  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
any  number  of  authors  that  she  could  afford  to  feel 
indifferent  about  them. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  amiably,  "  they  are  not 
in  the  least  different  from  other  people." 

It  sounded  something  like  blasphemy. 

"Not  different!"  cried  Louisiana.  "Oh, 
surely,  they  must  be  !  Isn't — isn't  your  brother 
different?  " 

Miss  Ferrol  stopped  to  think.  She  was  very 
fond  of  her  brother.  Privately  she  considered  him 
the  literary  man  of  his  day.  She  was  simply  dis 
gusted  when  she  heard  experienced  critics  only 
calling  him  "  clever  "  and  "brilliant"  instead  of 
"  great  "  and  "  world-moving." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  at  length,  "  he  is  different." 

"  I  thought  he  must  be,"  said  Louisiana,  with  a 
sigh  of  relief.  "  You  are,  you  know." 

"Am  I?"  returned  Olivia.  "Thank  you. 
But  I  am  not  an  author — at  least," — she  added, 
guiltily,  "  nothing  I  have  written  has  ever  been 
published." 

"  Oh,  why  not  ?  "  exclaimed  Louisiana. 

"Why  not?"  she  repeated,  dubiously  and 
thoughtfully.  And  then,  knitting  her  brows,  she 
said,  "  I  don't  know  why  not." 


"HE  is  DIFFERENT:^  29 

"  I  am  sure  if  you  have  ever^  written  anything, 
it  ought  to  have  been  published,"  protested  her 
adorer. 

"/thought  so,"  said  Miss  Ferrol.  "  But— but 
they  didn't." 

"They?"  echoed  Louisiana.  ''Who  are 
' they  ?  '  " 

"  The  editors,"  she  replied,  in  a  rather  gloomy 
manner.  u  There  is  a  great  deal  of  wire-pull 
ing,  and  favoritism,  and  — even  envy  and  malice, 
of  which  those  outside  know  nothing.  You 
wouldn't  understand  it  if  I  should  tell  you  about 
it." 

For  a  few  moments  she  wore  quite  a  fell  ex 
pression,  and  gloom  reigned.  She  gave  her  head 
a  little  shake. 

"  They  regret  it  afterward,"  she  remarked, — 
"  frequently." 

From  which  Louisiana  gathered  that  it  was  the 
editors  who  were  so  overwhelmed,  and  she  could 
not  help  sympathizing  with  them  in  secret.  There 
was  something  in  the  picture  of  their  unavailing 
remorse  which  touched  her,  despite  her  knowledge 
of  the  patent  fact  that  they  deserved  it  and  could 
expect  nothing  better.  She  was  quite  glad  when 
Olivia  brightened  up,  as  she  did  presently. 

"  Laurence  is  handsomer  than  most  of  them, 


30  LOUISIANA. 

and  has  a  more  distinguished  air,"  she  said. 
"  He  is  very  charming.  People  always  say  so." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  him,"  ventured  Louisiana. 

"  You  will  see  him  if  you  stay  here  much  long 
er,"  replied  Miss  Ferrol.  "  It  is  quite  likely  he  will 
come  to  Oakvale." 

For  a  moment  Louisiana  fluttered  and  turned 
pale  with  pleasure,  but  as  suddenly  she  drooped. 

"  I  forgot,"  she  faltered.  "  You  will  have  to 
be  with  him  always,  and  I  shall  have  no  one.  He 
won't  want  me." 

Olivia  sat  and  looked  at  her  with  deepening  in 
terest.  She  was  thinking  again  of  a  certain  whim 
sical  idea  which  had  beset  her  several  times  since 
she  had  attired  her  protegee  in  the  cream-colored 
robe. 

"  Louise,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  mysterious  tone, 
"  how  would  you  like  to  wear  dresses  like  mine 
all  the  rest  of  the  time  you  are  here  ?  " 

The  child  stared  at  her  blankly. 

"  I  haven't  got  any,"  she  gasped. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Ferrol,  with  deliberation, 
"  but  /  have." 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  dropping  her  mysteri 
ous  air  and  smiling  encouragingly. 

"  Come  with  me  to  my  room,"  she  said.  "  I 
want  to  ta.k  to  you." 


"//£  IS  DIFFERENT."  3 1 

If  she  had  ordered  her  to  follow  her  to  the 
stake  it  is  not  at  all  unlikely  that  Louisiana  would 
have  obeyed.  She  got  up  meekly,  smiling,  too,  and 
feeling  sure  something  very  interesting  was  going 
to  happen.  She  did  not  understand  in  the  least, 
but  she  was  quite  tractable.  And  after  they  had 
reached  the  room  and  shut  themselves  in,  she 
found  that  it  was  something  very  interesting  which 
was  to  happen. 

"  You  remember  what  I  said  to  you  this  morn 
ing  ?  "  Miss  Ferrol  suggested. 

"  You  said  so  many  things." 

"  Oh,  but  you  cannot  have  forgotten  this  partic 
ular  thing.  I  said  you  looked  as  if  you  had  been 
born  in  New  York." 

Louisiana  remembered  with  a  glow  of  rapture. 

*'  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered. 

"  And  I  said  Laurence  himself  would  not  know, 
if  he  was  not  told,  that  you  had  lived  all  your  life 
here.'" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  I  said  I  should  like  to  try  you  on  him." 

-Yes." 

Miss  Ferrol  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  and 
watched  her  closely. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  it  all  the  morning," 
she  added.  "  I  should  like  to  try  you  on  him." 


32  LOUISIANA. 

Louisiana  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  she 
spoke,  hesitatingly  : 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  should  pretend ,"  she 

began. 

44  Oh,  no,"  interrupted  Miss  Ferrol.  "Not 
pretend  either  one  thing  or  the  other.  Only  let 
me  dress  you  as  I  choose,  and  then  take  care  that 
you  say  nothing  whatever  about  your  past  life. 
You  will  have  to  be  rather  quiet,  perhaps,  and  let 
him  talk.  He  will  like  that,  of  course — men  always 
do — and  then  you  will  learn  a  great  many  things 
from  him." 

"  It  will  be  — a  very  strange  thing  to  do,"  said 
Louisiana. 

<4  It  will  be  a  very  interesting  thing,"  answered 
Olivia,  her  enthusiasm  increasing.  ''  How  he  will 
admire  you  !  " 

Louisiana  indulged  in  one  of  her  blushes. 

"  Have  you  a  picture  of  him  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Why?  "  she  asked,  in  some  surprise. 

"  Because  I  should  like  to  see  his  face." 

"  Do  you  think,"  Miss  Ferrol  said,  in  further 
bewilderment,  "  that  you  might  not  like  him  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  might  not  like  me." 

"  Not  like  you  !  "  cried  Miss  Ferrol.  "  You  ! 
He  will  think  you  are  divine — when  you  are 
dressed  as  I  shall  dress  you." 


"HE  IS  DIFFERENT."  33 

She  went  to  her  trunk  and  produced  the  pic 
ture.  It. was  not  a  photograph,  but  a  little  crayon 
head — the  head  of  a  handsome  man,  whose  ex 
pression  was  a  singular  combination  of  dreami 
ness  and  alertness.  It  was  a  fascinating  face. 

"  One  of  his  friends  did  it,"  said  Miss  Ferrol. 
"  His  friends  are  very  fond  of  him  and  admire  his 
good  looks  very  much.  They  protest  against  his 
being  photographed.  They  like  to  sketch  him. 
They  are  always  making  '  studies  '  of  his  head. 
What  do  you  think  of  him  ?  " 

Louisiana  hesitated. 

"  He  is  different,"  she  said  at  last.  "  I  thought 
he  would  be." 

She  gave  the  picture  back  to  Miss  Ferrol,  who 
replaced  it  in  her  trunk.  She  sat  for  a  few  sec 
onds  looking  down  at  the  carpet  and  apparently 
seeing  very  little.  Then  she  looked  up  at  her 
companion,  who  was  suddenly  a  little  embarrassed 
at  finding  her  receive  her  whimsical  planning  so 
seriously.  She  herself  had  not  thought  of  it  as 
being  serious  at  all.  It  would  be  interesting  and 
amusing,  and  would  prove  her  theory. 

"  I    will    do  what   you  want  me    to  do,"  s:-id 
Louisiana. 
.  *'  Then,"  said  Miss  Ferrol,  wondering  at  an  un- 


34  LOUISIANA. 

expected  sense  of  discomfort  in  herself,  "  I  will 
dress  you  for  supper  now.  You  must  begin  to 
wear  the  things,  so  that  you  may  get  used  to 
them." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A   NEW  TYPE. 

WHEN  the  two  entered  the  supper-room  to 
gether  a  little  commotion  was  caused  by  their  ar 
rival.  At  first  the  supple  young  figure  in  violet 
and  gray  was  not  recognized.  It  was  not  the 
figure  people  had  been  used  to,  it  seemed  so  tall 
and  slenderly  round.  The  reddish-brown  hair 
was  combed  high  and  made  into  soft  puffs  ;  it 
made  the  pretty  head  seem  more  delicately  shaped, 
and  showed  how  white  and  graceful  the  back  of 
the  slender  neck  was.  It  was  several  minutes  be 
fore  the  problem  was  solved.  Then  a  sharp  young 
woman  exclaimed,  sotto  vocc  : 

"  It's  the  little  country-girl,  in  new  clothes — in 
clothes  that  fit.  Would  you  believe  it  ?  " 

"Don't  look  at  your  plate  so  steadily,"  whis 
pered  Miss  Ferrol.  "  Lean  back  and  fan  your 
self  as  if  you  did  not  hear.  You  must  never  show 
that  you  hear  things." 


36  LOUISIANA. 

"  I  shall  be  obliged  to  give  her  a  few  hints  now 
and  then,"  she  had  said  to  herself  beforehand. 
u  But  I  feel  sure  when  she  once  catches  the  cue 
she  will  take  it." 

It  really  seemed  as  if  she  did,  too.  She  had 
looked  at  herself  long  and  steadily  after  she  had 
been  dressed,  and  when  she  turned  away  from  the 
glass  she  held  her  head  a  trifle  more  erect,  and 
her  cheeks  had  reddened.  Perhaps  what  she  had 
recognized  in  the  reflection  she  had  seen  had 
taught  her  a  lesson.  But  she  said  nothing.  In  a 
few  days  Olivia  herself  was  surprised  at  the  prog 
ress  she  had  made.  Sanguine  as  she  was,  she 
had  not  been  quite  prepared  for  the  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  her.  She  had  felt  sure  it 
would  be  necessary  to  teach  her  to  control  her 
emotions,  but  suddenly  she  seemed  to  have 
learned  to  control  them  without  being  told  to  do 
so  ;  she  was  no  longer  demonstrative  of  her  affec 
tion,  she  no  longer  asked  innocent  questions,  nor 
did  she  ever  speak  of  her  family.  Her  reserve 
was  puzzling  to  Olivia. 

' '  You  are  very  clever,"  she  said  to  her  one  day, 
the  words  breaking  from  her  in  spite  of  herself, 
after  she  had  sat  regarding  her  in  silence  for  a  few 
minutes.  "  You  are  even  cleverer  than  I  thought 
you  were,  Louise." 


A   NEW   TYPE.  37 

"  Was  that  very  clever  ?  "  the  girl  asked. 

"Yes,  it  was,"  Olivia  answered,  "but  not  so 
clever  as  you  are  proving  yourself." 

But  Louisiana  did  not  smile  or  blush,  as  she  had 
expected  she  would.  She  sat  very  quietly,  show 
ing  neither  pleasure  nor  shyness,  and  seeming  for 
a  moment  or  so  to  be  absorbed  in  thought. 

In  the  evening  when  the  stages  came  in  they 
were  sitting  on  the  front  gallery  together.  As  the 
old  rattletraps  bumped  and  swung  themselves  up 
the  gravel  drive,  Olivia  bent  forward  to  obtain  a 
better  view  of  the  passengers. 

"  He  ought  to  be  among  them,"  she  said. 

Louisiana  laid  her  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Who  is  that  sitting  with  the  driver?"  she 
asked,  as  the  second  vehicle  passed  them.  "  Isn't 
that -" 

"  To  be  sure  it  is  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Fcrrol. 

She  would  have  left  her  seat,  but  she  found 
herself  detained.  Her  companion  had  grasped 
her  wrist. 

"  Wait  a  minute  !  "  she  said.  "  Don't  leave 
me  !  Oh — I  wish  I  had  not  done  it  !  " 

Miss  Ferrol  turned  and  stared  at  her  in  amaze 
ment. 

She  spoke  in  her  old,  uncontrolled,  childish 
fashion.  She  was  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  dilated. 


38  LOUISIANA. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  Miss  Ferrol,  hur 
riedly,  when  she  found  her  voice.  "  Is  it  that  you 
really  don't  like  the  idea?  If  you  don't,  there  is 
no  need  of  our  carrying  it  out.  It  was  only  non 
sense — I  beg  your  pardon  for  not  seeing  that  it 
disturbed  you.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  very  bad 
taste  in  me — 

But  she  was  not  allowed  to  finish  her  sentence. 
As  suddenly  as  it  had  altered  before,  Louisiana's 
expression  altered  again.  She  rose  to  her  feet 
with  a  strange  little  smile.  She  looked  into  Miss 
Ferrol's  astonished  face  steadily  and  calmly. 

"  Your  brother  has  seen  you  and  is  coming 
toward  us,"  she  said.  "  I  will  leave  you.  We 
shall  see  each  other  again  at  supper." 

And  with  a  little  bow  she  moved  away  with 
an  air  of  composure  which  left  her  instructress 
stunned.  She  could  scarcely  recover  her  equilib 
rium  sufficiently  to  greet  her  brother  decently 
when  he  reached  her  side.  She  had  never  been 
so  thoroughly  at  sea  in  her  life. 

After  she  had  gone  to  her  room  that  night,  her 
brother  came  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

When  she  opened  it  and  let  him  in  he  walked 
to  a  chair  and  threw  himself  into  it,  wearing  a 
rather  excited  look. 


A   NEW  TYPE.  39 

"  Olivia,"  he  began  at  once,  "  what  a  bewilder 
ing  girl  !  " 

Olivia  sat  down  opposite  to  him,  with  a  com 
posed  smile. 

"  Miss  Rogers,  of  course  ?  "  she  said. 

"Of  course,"  he  echoed.  And  then,  after  a  pause 
of  two  or  three  seconds,  he  added,  in  the  tone  he  had 
used  before:  "What  a  delightfully  mysterious  girl!" 

"  Mysterious  !  "  repeated  Olivia. 

lf  There  is  no  other  word  for  it  !  She  has  such 
an  adorable  face,  she  looks  so  young,  and  she  says 
so  little."  And  then,  with  serious  delight,  he 
added  :  "  It  is  a  new  type  !  " 

Olivia  began  to  laugh. 

"  Why  are  you  laughing?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Because  I  was  so  sure  you  would  say  that," 
she  answered.  "  I  was  waiting  for  it." 

"  But  it  is  true,"  he  replied,  quite  vehemently. 
"  I  never  saw  anything  like  her  before.  I  look  at 
her  great  soft  eyes  and  I  catch  glimpses  of  expres 
sion  which  don't  seem  to  belong  to  the  rest  of  her. 
When  I  see  her  eyes  I  could  fancy  for  a  moment 
that  she  had  been  brought  up  in  a  convent  or  had 
lived  a  very  simple,  isolated  life,  but  when  she 
speaks  and  moves  I  am  bewildered.  I  want  to 
hear  her  talk,  but  she  says  so  little.  She  does  not 
even  dance.  I  suppose  her  relatives  are  serious 


40  LOUISIANA. 

people.  I  dare  say  you  have  not  heard  much  of 
them  from  her.  Her  reserve  is  so  extraordinary 
in  a  girl.  I  wonder  how  old  she  is  ?  " 

"  Nineteen,  I  think." 

"  I  thought  so.  I  never  saw  anything  prettier 
than  her  quiet  way  when  I  asked  her  to  dance 
with  me.  She  said,  simply,  '  I  do  not  dance.  I 
have  never  learned.'  It  was  as  if  she  had  never 
thought  of  it  as  being  an  unusual  thing." 

He  talked  of  her  all  the  time  he  remained  in  the 
room.  Olivia  had  never  seen  him  so  interested 
before. 

11  The  fascination  is  that  she  seems  to  be  two 
creatures  at  once,"  he  said.  "  And  one  of  them 
is  stronger  than  the  other  and  will  break  out  and 
reveal  itself  one  day.  I  begin  by  feeling  I  do  not 
understand  her,  and  that  is  the  most  interesting 
of  all  beginnings,  I  long  to  discover  which  of  the 
two  creatures  is  the  real  one." 

When  he  was  going  away  he  stopped  suddenly 
to  say  : 

"  How  was  it  you  never  mentioned  her  in  your 
letters?  I  can't  understand  that." 

"  I  wanted  you  to  see  her  for  yourself,"  Olivia 
answered.  "  I  thought  I  would  wait.' 

o 

"  Well,"  he  said,  after  thinking  a  moment,  "  I 
am  glad,  after  all,  that  you  did." 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  I   HAVE   HURT    YOU." 

FROM  the  day  of  his  arrival  a  new  life  began  for 
Louisiana.  She  was  no  longer  an  obscure  and 
unconsidered  young  person.  Suddenly,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  found  herself  vested 
with  a  marvellous  power.  It  was  a  power  girls 
of  a  different  class  from  her  own  are  vested  with 
from  the  beginning  of  their  lives.  They  are  used 
to  it  and  regard  it  as  their  birthright.  Louisiana 
was  not  used  to  it.  There  had  been  nothing  like 
it  attending  her  position  as  "  that  purty  gal  o' 
Rogerses."  She  was  accustomed  to  the  admira 
tion  of  men  she  was  indifferent  to — men  who  wore 
short-waisted  blue-jean  coats,  and  turned  upon 
their  elbows  to  stare  at  her  as  she  sat  in  the  little 
white  frame  church.  After  making  an  effort  to 
cultivate  her  acquaintance,  they  generally  went 
away  disconcerted.  "  She's  mighty  still,"  they 
said.  "  She  haint  got  nothin'  to  say.  Seems  like 


42  LOUISIANA. 

thar  aint  much  to  her — but  she's  powerful  purty 
though." 

This  was  nothing  like  her  present  experience. 
She  began  slowly  to  realize  that  she  was  a  little 
like  a  young  queen  now.  Here  was  a  man  such 
as  she  had  never  spoken  to  before,  who  was  always 
ready  to  endeavor  to  his  utmost  to  please  her  : 
who,  without  any  tendency  toward  sentimental 
nonsense,  was  plainly  the  happier  for  her  presence 
and  favor.  What  could  be  more  assiduous  and 
gallant  than  the  every-day  behavior  of  the  well- 
bred,  thoroughly  experienced  young  man  of  the 
period  toward  the  young  beauty  who  for  the  mo 
ment  reigns  over  his  fancy  !  It  need  only  be  over 
his  fancy  ;  there  is  no  necessity  that  the  impres 
sion  should  be  any  deeper.  His  suavity,  his  chiv- 
alric  air,  his  ready  wit  in  her  service,  are  all  that 
could  be  desired. 

When  Louisiana  awakened  to  the  fact  that  all 
this  homage  was  rendered  to  her  as  being  only  the 
natural  result  of  her  girlish  beauty — as  if  it  was 
the  simplest  thing  in  the  world,  and  a  state  of  af 
fairs  which  must  have  existed  from  the  first— she 
experienced  a  sense  of  terror.  Just  at  the  very 
first  she  would  have  been  glad  to  escape  from  it 
and  sink  into  her  old  obscurity. 

"  It  does  not  belong  to  me, "she  said  to  herself. 


"I  HAVE  HURT  YOU."  43 

"  It  belongs  to  some  one  else — to  the  girl  he  thinks 
I  am.  I  am  not  that  girl,  though  ;  I  will  remem 
ber  that." 

But  in  a  few  days  she  calmed  down.  She  told 
herself  that  she  always  did  remember,  but  she 
ceased  to  feel  frightened  and  was  more  at  ease. 
She  never  talked  very  much,  but  she  became  more 
familiar  with  the  subjects  she  heard  discussed. 
One  morning  she  went  to  Olivia's  room  and  asked 
her  for  the  address  of  a  bookseller. 

"  I  want  to  send  for  some  books  and — and  mag 
azines,"  she  said,  confusedly.  "  I  wish  you — if 
you  would  tell  me  what  to  send  for.  Father  will 
give  me  the  money  if  I  ask  him  for  it." 

Olivia  sat  down  and  made  a  list.  It  was  along 
list,  comprising  the  best  periodicals  of  the  day  and 
several  standard  books. 

When  she  handed  it  to  her  she  regarded  her 
with  curiosity. 

"  You  mean  to  read  them  all  ?"  she  asked. 

"Isn't  it  time  that  I  should?"  replied  her 
pupil. 

"  Well — it  is  a  good  plan,"  returned  Olivia, 
rather  absently. 

Truth  to  tell,  she  was  more  puzzled  every  day. 
She  had  begun  to  be  quite  sure  that  something 
had  happened.  It  seemed  as  if  a  slight  coldness 


44  LOUISIANA. 

existed  between  herself  and  her  whilom  adorer. 
The  simplicity  of  her  enthusiasm  was  gone.  Her 
affection  had  changed  as  her  outward  bearing.  It 
was  a  better  regulated  and  less  noticeable  emotion. 
Once  or  twice  Olivia  fancied  she  had  seen  the 
girl  looking  at  her  even  sadly,  as  if  she  felt,  for  the 
moment,  a  sense  of  some  loss. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  very  clumsy  in  me,"  she  used 
to  say  to  herself.  "  Perhaps  I  don't  understand 
her,  after  all." 

But  she  could  not  help  looking  on  with  interest. 
She  had  never  before  seen  Laurence  enjoy  himself 
so  thoroughly.  He  had  been  working  very  hard 
during  the  past  year,  and  was  ready  for  his  holi 
day.  He  found  the  utter  idleness,  which  was  the 
chief  feature  of  the  place,  a  good  thing.  There 
was  no  town  or  village  within  twenty  miles,  news 
papers  were  a  day  or  two  old  when  they  arrived, 
there  were  very  few  books  to  be  found,  and  there 
was  absolutely  no  excitement.  At  night  the  band 
brayed  in  the  empty-looking  ball-room,  and  a  few 
very  young  couples  danced,  in  a  desultory  fashion 
and  without  any  ceremony.  The  primitive,  do 
mesticated  slo\vness  of  the  place  was  charming. 
Most  of  the  guests  had  come  from  the  far  South 
at  the  beginning  of  the  season  and  would  remain 
until  the  close  of  it ;  so  they  had  had  time  to  be- 


"7  HAVE  HURT  YOU."  45 

come  familiar  with  each  other  and  to  throw  aside 
restraint. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  distract  one,"  Ferrol  said, 
"  nothing  to  rouse  one,  nothing  to  inspire  one- 
nothing  !  It  is  delicious  !  Why  didn't  I  know 
of  it  before?  " 

He  had  plenty  of  time  to  study  his  sister's 
friend.  She  rode  and  walked  with  him  and 
Olivia  when  they  made  their  excursions,  she 
listened  while  he  read  aloud  to  them  as  he  lay 
on  the  grass  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  grounds. 
He  thought  her  natural  reserve  held  her  from 
expressing  her  opinion  on  what  he  read  very 
freely  ;  it  certainly  did  not  occur  to  him  that  she 
was  beginning  her  literary  education  under  his 
guidance.  He  could  see  that  the  things  which 
pleased  him  most  were  not  lost  upon  her.  Her 
face  told  him  that.  One  moonlight  night,  as 
they  sat  on  an  upper  gallery,  he  began  to  speak 
of  the  novelty  of  the  aspect  of  the  country  as  it 
presented  itself  to  an  outsider  who  saw  it  for  the 
first  time. 

"  It  is  a  new  life,  and  a  new  people,"  he  said. 
"And,  by  the  way,  Olivia,  where  is  the  new 
species  of  young  woman  I  was  to  see — the 
daughter  of  the  people  who  does  not  belong  to 
her  sphere  ?  " 


46  LOUISIANA. 

He  turned  to  Louisiana. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  her?"  he  asked.  "I 
must  confess  to  a  dubiousness  on  the  subject." 

Before  he  could  add  another  word  Louisiana 
turned  upon  him.  He  could  see  her  face  clearly 
in  the  moonlight.  It  was  white,  and  her  eyes 
were  dilated  and  full  of  fire. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  in  that  way?"  she  cried. 
"As  if — as  if  such  people  were  so  far  beneath 
you.  What  right  have  you •" 

She  stopped  suddenly.  Laurence  Ferrol  was 
gazing-  at  her  in  amazement.  She  rose  from  her 
seat,  trembling. 

"I  will  go  away  a  little,"  she  said.  "I  beg 
your  pardon — and  Miss  Ferrol's." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  them  and  went 
away.  Ferrol  sat  holding  her  little  round,  white- 
feather  fan  helplessly,  and  staring  after  her  until 
she  disappeared. 

It  was  several  seconds  before  the  silence  was 
broken.  It  was  he  who  broke  it. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  means,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice.  "  I  don't  know  what  I  have  done  ! " 

In  a  little  while  he  got  up  and  began  to  roam 
aimlessly  about  the  gallery.  He  strolled  from 
one  end  to  the  other  with  his  hands  thrust  in  his 
coat  pockets.  Olivia,  who  had  remained  seated, 


"I  HAVE  HURT  YOU."  47 

knew  that  he  was  waiting  in  hopes  that  Louisiana 
would  return.  He  had  been  walking  to  and  fro, 
looking  as  miserable  as  possible,  for  about  half  an 
hour,  when  at  last  she  saw  him  pause  and  turn 
half  round  before  the  open  door  of  an  upper  cor 
ridor  leading  out  upon  the  verandah.  A  black 
figure  stood  revealed  against  the  inside  light.  It 
was  Louisiana,  and,  after  hesitating  a  moment, 
she  moved  slowly  forward. 

She  had  not  recovered  her  color,  but  her  man 
ner  was  perfectly  quiet. 

"  I  am  glad  you  did  not  go  away,"  she  said. 

Ferrol  had  only  stood  still  at  first,  waiting  her 
pleasure,  but  the  instant  she  spoke  he  made  a 
quick  step  toward  her. 

"  I  should  have  felt  it  a  very  hard  thing  not  to 
have  seen  you  again  before  I  slept,"  he  said. 

She  made  no  reply,  and  they  walked  together 
in  silence  until  they  reached  the  opposite  end  of 
the  gallery. 

"  Miss  Ferrol  has  gone  in,"  she  said  then. 

He  turned  to  look  and  saw  that  such  was  the 
case.  Suddenly,  for  some  reason  best  known  to 
herself,  Olivia  had  disappeared  from  the  scene. 

Louisiana  leaned  against  one  of  the  slender, 
supporting  pillars  of  the  gallery.  She  did  not 
look  at  Ferrol,  but  at  the  blackness  of  the  moun- 


48  LOUISIANA. 

tains  rising  before  them.  Ferrol  could  not  look 
away  from  her. 

"If  you  had  not  come  out  again,"  he  said, 
after  a  pause,  "  I  think  I  should  have  remained 
here,  baying  at  the  moon,  all  night." 

Then,  as  she  made  no  reply,  he  began  to  pour 
himself  forth  quite  recklessly. 

"  I  cannot  quite  understand  how  I  hurt  you," 
he  said.  "  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  have 
hurt  you,  but  even  while  I  don't  understand, 
there  are  no  words  abject  enough  to  express 
what  I  feel  now  and  have  felt  during  the  last  half 
hour.  If  I  only  dared  ask  you  to  tell  me " 

She  stopped  him. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  But  it  is  not 
your  fault — it  is  nothing  you  could  have  under 
stood — it  is  my  fault — all  my  fault,  and — I  de 
serve  it." 

He  was  terribly -discouraged. 

"I  am  bewildered,"  he  said.  "I  am  very 
unhappy." 

She  turned  her  pretty,  pale  face  round  to  him 
swiftly. 

''  It  is  not  you  who  need  be  unhappy,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "It  is  I  !" 

The  next  instant  she  had  checked  herself  again, 
just  as  she  had  done  before. 


"/  HAVE  HURT  YOU."  49 

<(Let  us  talk  of  something  else,"  she  said, 
coldly. 

"  It  will  not  be  easy  for  me  to  do  so,"  he 
answered,  "  but  I  will  try." 

Before  Olivia  went  to  bed  she  had  a  visit  from 
her. 

She  received  her  with  some  embarrassment,  it 
must  be  confessed.  Day  by  day  she  felt  less  at 
ease  with  her  and  more  deeply  self-convicted  of 
some  blundering, — which,  to  a  young  woman  of 
her  temperament,  was  a  sharp  penalty. 

Louisiana  would  not  sit  down.  She  revealed 
her  purpose  in  coming  at  once. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  to  make  me  a  promise," 
she  said,  "  and  I  want  to  ask  your  pardon." 

"  Don't  do  that,"  said  Olivia. 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  that  you  will  not  tell 
your  brother  the  truth  until  you  have  left  here 
and  are  at  home.  I  shall  go  away  very  soon.  I 
am  tired  of  what  I  have  been  doing.  It  is  differ 
ent  from  what  you  meant  it  to  be.  But  you  must 
promise  that  if  you  stay  after  I  have  gone — as 
of  course  you  will — you  will  not  tell  him.  My 
home  is  only  a  few  miles  away.  You  might  be 
tempted,  after  thinking  it  over,  to  come  and  see 
me — and  I  should  not  like  it.  I  want  it  all  to 
3 


50  LOUISIANA. 

stop  here — I  mean  my  part  of  it.      I  don't  want 
to  know  the  rest." 

Olivia  had  never  felt  so  helpless  in  her  life. 
She  had  neither  self-poise,  nor  tact,  nor  any  other 
daring  quality  left. 

"I  wish,"  she  faltered,  gazing  at  the  girl  quite 
pathetically,  "  I  wish  we  had  never  begun  it." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Louisiana.  "Do  you  prom 
ise?" 

'  Y-yes.  I  would  promise  anything.  I — I 
have  hurt  your  feelings,"  she  confessed,  in  an 
outbreak. 

She  was  destined  to  receive  a  fresh  shock.  All 
at  once  the  girl  was  metamorphosed  again.  It 
was  her  old  ignorant,  sweet,  simple  self  who  stood 
there,  with  trembling  lips  and  dilated  eyes. 

"Yes,  you  have!"  she  cried.  "Yes,  you 
have  !  " 

And  she  burst  into  tears  and  turned  about  and 
ran  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   ROAD   TO   THE   RIGHT. 

THE  morning  after,  Ferrol  heard  an  announce 
ment  which  came  upon  him  like  a  clap  of  thunder. 

After  breakfast,  as  they  walked  about  the 
grounds,  Olivia,  who  had  seemed  to  be  in  an 
abstracted  mood,  said,  without  any  preface  : 

"  Miss  Rogers  returns  home  to-morrow." 

Laurence  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  the 
path. 

"  To-morrow  !  "  he  exclaimed.      "  Oh,  no." 

He  glanced  across  at  Louisiana  with  an  anxious 
face. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  home." 

"  To  New  York  ?" 

"  I  do  not  live  in  New  York." 

She  spoke  quite  simply,  but  the  words  were  a 
shock  to  him.  They  embarrassed  him.  There 
was  no  coldness  in  her  manner,  no  displeasure  in 
her  tone,  but,  of  course,  he  understood  that  it 


52  LOUISIANA. 

would  be  worse  than  tactless  to  inquire  further. 
Was  it  possible  that  she  did  not  care  that  he 
should  know  where  she  lived  ?  There  seemed  no 
other  construction  to  be  placed  upon  her  words. 
He  flushed  a  little,  and  for  a  few  minutes  looked 
rather  gloomy,  though  he  quickly  recovered  him 
self  afterward  and  changed  the  subject  with  cred 
itable  readiness. 

"  Did  not  you  tell  me  she  lived  in  New  York  ?  " 
he  asked  Olivia,  the  first  time  they  were  alone  to 
gether. 

"  No,"  Olivia  answered,  a  trifle  sharply.  "  Why 
New  York,  more  than  another  place  ?  " 

"  For  no  reason  whatever,  —  really,"  he  return 
ed,  more  bewildered  than  ever.  ''There  was  no 
reason  why  I  should  choose  New  York,  only 
when  I  spoke  to  her  of  certain  places  there,  she 


He  paused  and  thought  the  matter  over  care 
fully  before  finishing  his  sentence.  He  ended  it 
at  last  in  a  singular  manner. 

"  She  said  nothing,"  he  said.  "  It  is  actually  true 
—  now  I  think  of  it  —  she  said  nothing  whatever  !  " 

"  And  because  she  said  nothing  whatever  --  " 
began  Olivia. 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead  with  a 
puzzled  gesture. 


THE  ROAD    TO   THE  RIGHT.  53 

"  I  fancied  she  looked  as  if  she  knew,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "  I  am  sure  she  looked  as  if  she  knew 
what  I  was  talking  about — as  if  she  knew  the 
places,  I  mean.  It  is  very  queer  !  There  seems 
no  reason  in  it.  Why  shouldn't  she  wish  us  to 
know  where  she  lives  ?  '' 

"  I — I  must  confess,"  cried  Olivia,  "  that  I  am 
getting  a  little  tired  of  her." 

It  was  treacherous  and  vicious,  and  she  knew  it 
was  ;  but  her  guilty  conscience  and  her  increasing 
sense  of  having  bungled  drove  her  to  desperation. 
If  she  had  not  promised  to  keep  the  truth  to  her 
self,  she  would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  unbur 
den  herself.  It  was  so  stupid,  after  all,  and  she 
had  only  herself  to  blame. 

Laurence  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  You  cannot  be  tired  of  her  !  "  he  said.  "  That 
is  impossible.  She  takes  firmer  hold  upon  one 
every  hour." 

This  was  certainly  true,  as  far  as  he  was  con 
cerned.  He  was  often  even  surprised  at  his  own 
enthusiasm.  He  had  seen  so  many  pretty  women 
that  it  was  almost  inconsistent  that  he  should  be 
so  much  moved  by  the  prcttiness  of  one  charming 
creature,  and  particularly  one  who  spoke  so  little, 
who,  after  all,  was — but  there  he  always  found 
himself  at  a  full  stop.  He  could  not  say  what  she 


54  LOUISIANA. 

was,  he  did  not  know  yet  ;  really,  he  seemed  no 
nearer  the  solution  of  the  mystery  than  he  had 
been  at  first.  There  lay  the  fascination.  He  felt 
so  sure  there  was  an  immense  deal  for  him  to  dis 
cover,  if  he  could  only  discover  it.  He  had  an 
ideal  in  his  mind,  and  this  ideal,  he  felt  confident, 
was  the  real  creature,  if  he  could  only  see  her. 
During  the  episode  on  the  upper  gallery  he  fan 
cied  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  what  was  to  be 
revealed.  The  sudden  passion  on  her  pale  young 
face,  the  fire  in  her  eyes,  were  what  he  had 
dreamed  of. 

If  he  had  not  been  possessed  of  courage  and  an 
honest  faith  in  himself,  born  of  a  goodly  amount 
of  success,  he  would  have  been  far  more  depressed 
than  he  was.  She  was  going  away,  and  had  not 
encouraged  him  to  look  forward  to  their  meeting 
again. 

"  I  own  it  is  rather  bad  to  look  at,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "if  one  quite  believed  that  Fate  would 
serve  one  such  an  ill  turn.  She  never  played  me 
such  a  trick,  however,  and  I  won't  believe  she 
will.  I  shall  see  her  again — sometime.  It  will 
turn  out  fairly  enough,  surely." 

So  with  this  consolation  he  supported  himself. 
There  was  one  day  left  and  he  meant  to  make  the 
best  of  it.  It  was  to  be  spent  in  driving  to  a  cer- 


THE  ROAD   TO   THE  RIGHT.  55 

tain  mountain,  about  ten  miles  distant.  All  tour 
ists  who  were  possessed  of  sufficient  energy  made 
this  excursion  as  a  matter  of  duty,  if  from  no  more 
enthusiastic  motive.  A  strong,  light  carriage  and 
a  pair  of  horses  were  kept  in  the  hotel  stables  for 
the  express  purpose  of  conveying  guests  to  this 
special  point. 

This  vehicle  Ferrol  had  engaged  the  day  before, 
and  as  matters  had  developed  he  had  cause  to 
congratulate  himself  upon  the  fact.  He  said  to 
Louisiana  what  he  had  before  said  to  himself: 

"  We  have  one  day  left,  and  we  will  make  the 
best  of  it." 

Olivia,  who  stood  upon  the  gallery  before  which 
the  carriage  had  been  drawn  up,  glanced  at  Lou 
isiana  furtively.  On  her  part  she  felt  privately  that 
it  would  be  rather  hard  to  make  the  best  of  it.  She 
wished  that  it  was  well  over.  But  Louisiana  did 
not  return  her  glance.  She  was  looking  at  Ferrol 
and  the  horses.  She  had  done  something  new 
this  morning.  She  had  laid  aside  her  borrowed 
splendor  and  attired  herself  in  one  of  her  own 
dresses,  which  she  had  had  -the  boldness  to  re 
model.  She  had  seized  a  hint  from  some  one  of 
Olivia's  possessions,  and  had  given  her  costume  a 
pretty  air  of  primitive  simplicity.  It  was  a  plain 
white  lawn,  with  a  little  frilled  cape  or  fichu  which 


56  LOUISIANA. 

crossed  upon  her  breast,  and  was  knotted  loosely 
behind.  She  had  a  black  velvet  ribbon  around 
her  lithe  waist,  a  rose  in  her  bosom  where  the  fichu 
crossed,  and  a  broad  Gainsborough  hat  upon  her 
head.  One  was  reminded  somewhat  of  the  pic 
turesque  young  woman  of  the  good  old  colony 
times.  Ferrol,  at  least,  when  he  first  caught  sight 
of  her,  was  reminded  of  pictures  he  had  seen  of 
them. 

There  was  no  trace  of  her  last  night's  fire  in  her 
manner.  She  was  quieter  than  usual  through  the 
first  part  of  the  drive.  She  was  gentle  to  submis- 
siveness  to  Olivia.  There  was  something  even 
tender  in  her  voice  once  or  twice  when  she  ad 
dressed  her.  Laurence  noticed  it,  and  accounted 
for  it  naturally  enough. 

"  She  is  really  fonder  of  her  than  she  has 
seemed,"  he  thought,  "  and  she  is  sorry  that  their 
parting  is  so  near." 

He  was  just  arriving  at  this  conclusion  when 
Louisiana  touched  his  arm. 

"  Don't  take  that  road,"  she  said. 

He  drew  up  his  horses  and  looked  at  her  with 
surprise.  There  were  two  roads  before  them, 
and  he  had  been  upon  the  point  of  taking  the  one 
to  the  right. 

41  But  it  is  the  only  road  to  take,"  he  continued. 


THE   ROAD    TO    THE   RIGHT.  57 

"  The  other  'does  not  lead  to  the  mountain.  I 
was  told  to  be  sure  to  take  the  road  to  the  right 
hand." 

"  It  is  a  mistake,"  she  said,  in  a  disturbed  tone. 
"  The  left-hand  road  leads  to  the  mountain,  too — 
at  least,  we  can  reach  it  by  striking  the  wagon- 
road  through  the  woods.  I — yes,  I  am  sure  of 
it." 

"  But  this  is  the  better  road.  Is  there  any  rea 
son  why  you  prefer  the  other  ?  Could  you  pilot 
us?  If  you  can -" 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her  appealingly. 

He  was  ready  to  do  anything  she  wished,  but 
the  necessity  for  his  yielding  had  passed.  Her 
face  assumed  a  set  look. 

14  I  can't,"  she  answered.      "  Take  the  road  to 
the  right.     Why  not  ?  " 
3* 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"  SHE   AINT    YERE." 

FERROL  was  obliged  to  admit  when  they  turned 
their  faces  homeward  that  the  day  was  hardly  a 
success,  after  all.  Olivia  had  not  been  at  her  best, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  and  from  the  moment 
they  had  taken  the  right-hand  road  Louisiana  had 
been  wholly  incomprehensible. 

In  her  quietest  mood  she  had  never  worn  a  cold 
air  before  ;  to-day  she  had  been  cold  and  unre 
sponsive.  It  had  struck  him  that  she  was  ab 
sorbed  in  thinking  of  something  which  was  quite 
beyond  him.  She  was  plainly  not  thinking  of 
him,  nor  of  Olivia,  nor  of  the  journey  they  were 
making.  During  the  drive  she  had  sat  with  her 
hands  folded  upon  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  straight 
before  her.  She  had  paid  no  attention  to  the 
scenery,  only  rousing  herself  to  call  their  atten 
tion  to  one  object.  This  object  was  a  house  they 
passed — the  rambling,  low-roofed  white  house  of 


"SHE  AINT  YERE."  59 

some  well-to-do  farmer.  It  was  set  upon  a  small 
hill  and  had  a  long  front  porch,  mottled  with  blue 
and  white  paint  in  a  sanguine  attempt  at  imitating 
variegated  marble. 

She  burst  into  a  low  laugh  when  she  saw  it. 

"Look  at  that,"  she  said.  "That  is  one  of 
the  finest  houses  in  the  country.  The  man  who 
owns  it  is  counted  a  rich  man  among  his  neigh 
bors." 

Ferrol  put  up  his  eye-glasses  to  examine  it. 
(It  is  to  be  deplored  that  he  was  a  trifle  near 
sighted.) 

"By  George!"  he  said.  "That  is  an  idea, 
isn't  it,  that  marble  business  !  I  wonder  who  did 
it?  Do  you  know  the  man  who  lives  there  ?  " 

"I  have  heard  of  him,"  she  answered,  "from 
several  people.  He  is  a  namesake  of  mine.  His 
name  is  Rogers." 

When  they  returned  to  their  carriage,  after  a 
ramble  up  the  mountain-side,  they  became  con 
scious  that  the  sky  had  suddenly  darkened.  Fer 
rol  looked  up,  and  his  face  assumed  a  rather  seri 
ous  expression. 

"If  either  of  you  is  weather-wise,"  he  said,  "  I 
wish  you  would  tell  me  what  that  cloud  means. 
You  have  been  among  the  mountains  longer  than 
I  have." 


60  LOUISIANA. 

Louisiana  glanced  upward  quickly. 

"It  means  a  storm,"  she  said,  "and  a  heavy 
one.  We  shall  be  drenched  in  half  an  hour." 

Ferrol  looked  at  her  white  dress  and  the  little 
frilled  fichu,  which  was  her  sole  protection. 

"  Oh,  but  that  won't  do !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  What  insanity  in  me  not  to  think  of  umbrel 
las  !  " 

"Umbrellas!"  echoed  Louisiana.  "If  we 
had  each  six  umbrellas  they  could  not  save  us. 
We  may  as  well  get  into  the  carriage.  We  are 
only  losing  time." 

They  were  just  getting  in  when  an  idea  struck 
Ferrol  which  caused  him  to  utter  an  exclamation 
of  ecstatic  relief. 

"Why,"  he  cried,  "there  is  that  house  we 
passed  !  Get  in  quickly.  We  can  reach  there  in 
twenty  minutes." 

Louisiana  had  her  foot  upon  the  step.  She 
stopped  short  and  turned  to  face  him.  She 
changed  from  red  to  white  and  from  white  to  red 
again,  as  if  with  actual  terror. 

"  There  !  "  she  exclaimed.     "  There  !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  We  can  reach  there  in 
time  to  save  ourselves.  Is  there  any  objection  to 
our  going, — in  the  last  extremity  ?  " 

For   a    second    they  looked    into    each  other's 


"SHE  AINT   YERE."  6l 

eyes,  and  then  she  turned  and  sprang  into  the 
carriage.  She  laughed  aloud. 

l<  Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "  Go  there  !  It  will  be 
a  nice  place  to  stay — and  the  people  will  amuse 
you.  Go  there." 

They  reached  the  house  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
instead  of  twenty  minutes.  They  had  driven  fast 
and  kept  ahead  of  the  storm,  but  when  they  drew 
up  before  the  picket  fence  the  clouds  were  black 
and  the  thunder  was  rolling  behind  them.  „ 

It  was  Louisiana  who  got  out  first.  She  led 
the  way  up  the  path  to  the  house  and  mounted 
the  steps  of  the  variegated  porch.  She  did  not 
knock  at  the  door,  which  stood  open,  but,  some 
what  to  Fermi's  amazement,  walked  at  once  into 
the  front  room,  which  was  plainly  the  room  of 
state.  Not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it,  it  was 
a  hideous  room. 

The  ceiling  was  so  low  that  Ferrol  felt  as 
if  he  must  knock  his  head  against  it;  it  was 
papered  —  ceiling  and  all  —  with  paper  of  an 
unwholesome  yellow  enlivened  with  large  blue 
flowers  ;  there  was  a  bedstead  in  one  corner, 
and  the  walls  were  ornamented  with  colored  lith 
ographs  of  moon-faced  houris,  with  round  eyes 
and  round,  red  cheeks,  and  wearing  low-necked 
dresses,  and  flowers  in  their  bosoms,  and  bright 


62  LOUISIANA. 

yellow  gold  necklaces.  These  works  of  art  were 
the  first  things  which  caught  Ferrol's  eye,  and 
he  went  slowly  up  to  the  most  remarkable,  and 
stood  before  it,  regarding  it  with  mingled  wonder 
ment  and  awe. 

He  turned  from  it  after  a  few  seconds  to  look 
at  Louisiana,  who  stood  near  him,  and  he  beheld 
what  seemed  to  him  a  phenomenon.  He  had 
never  seen  her  blush  before  as  other  women  blush 
—now  she  was  blushing,  burning  red  from  chin  to 
brow. 

"  There — there  is  no  one  in  this  part  of  the 
house,"  she  said.  "  I — I  know  more  of  these 
people  than  you  do.  I  will  go  and  try  to  find 
some  one." 

She  was  gone  before  he  could  interpose.  Not 
that  he  would  have  interposed,  perhaps.  Some 
how—without  knowing  why —he  felt  as  if  she  did 
know  more  of  the  situation  than  he  did— almost 
as  if  she  were,  in  a  manner,  doing  the  honors  for 
the  time  being. 

She  crossed  the  passage  with  a  quick,  uneven 
step,  and  made  her  way,  as  if  well  used  to  the 
place,  into  the  kitchen  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

A  stout  negro  woman  stood  at  a  table,  filling  a 
pan  with  newly  made  biscuits.  Her  back  was  to 
ward  the  door  and  she  did  not  see  who  entered. 


"SHE  AINT   YE  RE."  63 

"  Aunt  Cassandry,"  the  girl  began,  when  the 
woman  turned  toward  her. 

"  Who's  dar?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Lor',  honey, 
how  ye  skeert  me  !  I  aint  no  C'sandry." 

The  face  she  turned  was  a  strange  one,  and  it 
showed  no  sign  of  recognition  of  her  visitor. 

It  was  an  odd  thing  that  the  sight  of  her  unfa 
miliar  face  should  have  been  a  shock  to  Louisi 
ana  ;  but  it  was  a  shock.  She  put  her  hand  to 
her  side. 

"Where  is  my— where  is  Mr.  Rogers?"  she 
asked.  "  I  want  to  see  him." 

"Out  on  de  back  po'ch,  honey,  right  now. 
Dar  he  goes  !  " 

The  girl  heard  him,  and  flew  out  to  meet  him. 
Her  heart  was  throbbing  hard,  and  she  was  draw 
ing  quick,  short  breaths. 

"  Father  !  "  she  cried.  "  Father  !  Don't  go  in 
the  house  ! 

And  she  caught  him  by  both  shoulders  and 
drew  him  round.  He  did  not  know  her  at  first  in 
her  fanciful-simple  dress  and  her  Gainsborough 
hat.  He  was  not  used  to  that  style  of  thing,  be 
lieving  that  it  belonged  rather  to  the  world  of 
pictures.  He  stared  at  her.  Then  he  broke  out 
with  an  exclamation, 

"  Lo-rd  !     Louisianny  !'" 


64  LOUISIANA. 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  his  face.  They  were  fe 
verishly  bright,  and  her  cheeks  were  hot.  She 
laughed  hysterically. 

"Don't  speak  loud,"  she  said.  "There  are 
some  strange  people  in  the  house,  and — and  I 
want  to  tell  you  something." 

He  was  a  slow  man,  and  it  took  him  some  time 
to  grasp  the  fact  that  she  was  really  before  him  in 
the  flesh.  He  said,  again  : 

"Lord,  Louisianny  !  "  adding,  cheerfully, 
"  How  ye've  serprised  me  !  " 

Then  he  took  in  afresh  the  change  in  her  dress. 
There  "was  a  pile  of  stove-wood  stacked  on  the 
porch  to  be  ready  for  use,  and  he  sat  down  on  it 
to  look  at  her. 

"  Why,  ye've  got  a  new  dress  on  !  "  he  said. 
"  Thet  thar's  what  made  ye  look  sorter  curis.  I 
hardly  knowed  ye." 

Then  he  remembered  what  she  had  said  on  first 
seeing  him. 

"  Why  don't  ye  want  me  to  go  in  the  house  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  What  sort  o'  folks  air  they  ?  " 

"  They  came  with  me  from  the  Springs,"  she 
answered  ;  "  and — and  I  want  to — to  play  a  joke 
on  them." 

She  put  her  hands  up  to  her  burning  cheeks, 
and  stood  so. 


"SHE  AINT   YhRE."  6$ 

•'  A  joke  on  'em  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  speaking  very  fast.  "  They 
don't  know  I  live  here,  they  think  I  came  from 
some  city, — they  took  the  notion  themselves,— 
and  I  want  to  let  them  think  so  until  we  go 
away  from  the  house.  It  will  be  such  a  good 
joke." 

She  tried  to  laugh,  but  broke  off  in  the  middle 
of  a  harsh  sound.  Her  father,  with  one  copperas- 
colored  leg  crossed  over  the  other,  was  chewing 
his  tobacco  slowly,  after  the  manner  of  a  rumina 
ting  animal,  while  he  watched  her. 

"  Don't  you  see  ?  "  she  asked. 

11  Wa-al,  no,"  he  answered.     "Not  rightly." 

She  actually  assumed  a  kind  of  spectral  gayety. 

' '  I  never  thought  of  it  until  I  saw  it  was  not 
Cassandry  who  was  in  the  kitchen,"  she  said. 
"  The  woman  who  is  there  didn't  know  me,  and 
it  came  into  my  mind  that — that  we  might  play 
off  on  them,"  using  the  phraseology  to  which  he 
was  the  most  accustomed. 

"  Waal,  we  m ought,"  he  admitted,  with  a  spec 
ulative  deliberateness.  "  Thet's  so.  We  mought 
— if  thar  was  any  use  in  it." 

"  It's  only  for  a  joke,"  she  persisted,  hurriedly. 

"  Thet's  so,"  he  repeated.      "  Thet's  so." 

He  got  up  slowly  and  rather   lumberingly  from 


66  LOUISIANA. 

his  seat  and  dusted  the  chips  from  his  copperas- 
colored  legs. 

"  Hev  ye  ben  enjyin'  yerself,  Louisianny  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.      "  Never  better." 

"  Ye  must  hev,"  he  returned,  "  or  ye  wouldn't 
be  in  sperrits  to  play  jokes." 

Then  he  changed  his  tone  so  suddenly  that  she 
was  startled. 

"  What  do  ye  want  me  to  do?  "  he  asked. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  tried  to 
laugh  again. 

"  To  pretend  you  don't  know  me — to  pretend 
I  have  never  been  here  before.  That's  joke 
enough,  isn't  it?  They  will  think  so  when  I  tell 
them  the  truth.  You  slow  old  father  !  Why 
don't  you  laugh  ?  " 

"  P'r'aps,"  he  said,  "  it's  on  account  o'  me  bcin' 
slow,  Louisianny.  Mcbbe  I  shall  begin  arter  a 
while." 

"  Don't  begin  at  the  wrong  time,"  she  said, 
still  keeping  up  her  feverish  laugh,  "  or  you'll 
spoil  it  all.  Now  come  along  in  and — and  pre 
tend  you  don't  know  me,"  she  continued,  draw 
ing  him  forward  by  the  arm.  "  They  might  sus 
pect  something  if  we  stay  so  long.  All  you've 
got  to  do  is  to  pretend  you  don't  know  me." 


"SHE  AINT  YERE."  6/ 

"Thet's  so,  Louisianny,"  with  a  kindly  glance 
downward  at  her  excited  face  as  he  followed  her 
out.  "  Thar  aint  no  call  fur  me  to  do  nothin1 
else,  is  there — just  pretend  I  don't  know  ye  ?  " 

It  was  wonderful  how  well  he  did  it,  too. 
When  she  preceded  him  into  the  room  the  girl 
was  quivering  with  excitement.  He  might  break 
down,  and  it  would  be  all  over  in  a  second.  But 
she  looked  Ferrol  boldly  in  the  face  when  she 
made  her  first  speech. 

"This  is  the  gentleman  of  the  house,"  she  said. 
"I  found  him  on  the  back  porch.  He  had  just 
come  in.  He  has  been  kind  enough  to  say  we 
may  stay  until  the  storm  is  over. " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  he  hospitably,  "stay  an'  wel 
come.  Ye  aint  the  first  as  has  stopped  over. 
Storms  come  up  sorter  suddent,  an'  we  haint  the 
kind  as  turns  folks  away." 

Ferrol  thanked  him,  Olivia  joining  in  with  a 
murmur  of  gratitude.  They  were  very  much  in 
debted  to  him  for  his  hospitality  ;  they  considered 
themselves  very  fortunate. 

Their  host  received  their  protestations  with 
much  equanimity. 

"  If  ye'd  like  to  set  out  on  the  front  porch  and 
watch  the  storm  come  up,"  he  said,  "  thar's  seats 
thar.  Or  would  ye  druther  set  here  ?  Women- 


68  LOUISIANA. 

folks  is  gen'rally  fond  o'  settin'  in-doors  whar 
thar's  a  parlor." 

But  they  preferred  the  porch,  and  followed  him 
out  upon  it. 

Having  seen  them  seated,  he  took  a  chair  him 
self.  It  was  a  split-seated  chair,  painted  green, 
and  he  tilted  it  back  against  a  pillar  of  the  porch 
and  applied  himself  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  a 
position  more  remarkable  for  ease  than  elegance. 
Ferrol  regarded  him  with  stealthy  rapture,  and 
drank  in  every  word  he  uttered. 

"  This,"  he  had  exclaimed  delightedly  to  Olivia, 
in  private — "why,  this  is  delightful!  These  are 
the  people  we  have  read  of.  I  scarcely  believed 
in  them  before.  I  would  not  have  missed  it  for 
the  world  !  " 

"  In  gin'ral,  now,"  their  entertainer  proceeded, 
"  wimmin-folk  is  fonder  o'  settin'  in  parlors.  My 
wife  was  powerful  sot  on  her  parlor.  She  wasn't 
never  satisfied  till  she  hed  one  an'  hed  it  fixed  up 
to  her  notion.  She  was  aliens  tradin'  fur  picters 
fur  it.  She  tuk  a  heap  o'  pride  in  her  picters. 
She  allers  had  it  in  her  mind  that  her  little  gal 
should  have  a  showy  parlor  when  she  growed 
up." 

"  You  have  a  daughter  ?  "  said  Ferrol. 

Their  host  hitched  his  chair  a  little  to  one  side. 


"SHE  AINT   YE  RE."  69 

He  bent  forward  to  expectorate,  and  then  an 
swered  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  some  distant 
point  toward  the  mountains. 

"  Wa-al,  yes,"  he  said;  "but  she  aint  yere, 
Louisianny  aint." 

Miss  Ferrol  gave  a  little  start,  and  immediately 
made  an  effort  to  appear  entirely  at  ease. 

"Did  you  say,"  asked  Ferrol,  "that  your 
daughter's  name  was " 

"  Louisianny,"  promptly.  "  I  come  from 
thar." 

Louisiana  got  up  and  walked  to  the  opposite 
end  of  the  porch. 

"  The  storm  will  be  upon  us  in  a  few  minutes," 
she  said.  "It  is  beginning  to  rain  now.  Come 
and  look  at  this  cloud  driving  over  the  mountain- 
top." 

Ferrol  rose  and  went  to  her.  He  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  at  the  cloud,  but  plainly  not 
thinking  of  it. 

"  His  daughter's  name  is  Louisiana,"  he  said, 
in  an  undertone.  "Louisiana!  Isn't  that  deli 
cious  ?  " 

Suddenly,  even  as  he  spoke,  a  new  idea  oc 
curred  to  him. 

"  Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "your  name  is  Louise, 
isn't  it?  I  think  Olivia  said  so." 


70  LOUISIANA. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  my  name  is  Louise." 

"  How  should  you  have  liked  it,"  he  inquired, 
absent-min'dedly,  "  if  it  had  been  Louisiana  ?  " 

She  answered  him  with  a  hard  coolness  which 
it  startled  him  afterward  to  remember. 

'•  How  would  you  have  liked  it  ?  "  she  said. 

They  were  driven  back  just  then  by  the  rain, 
which  began  to  beat  in  upon  their  end  of  the 
porch.  They  were  obliged  to  return  to  Olivia 
and  Mr.  Rogers,  who  were  engaged  in  an  ani 
mated  conversation. 

The  fact  was  that,  in  her  momentary  excite 
ment,  Olivia  had  plunged  into  conversation  as  a 
refuge.  She  had  suddenly  poured  forth  a  stream 
of  remark  and  query  which  had  the  effect  of  spur 
ring  up  her  companion  to  a  like  exhibition  of 
frankness.  He  had  been  asking  questions,  too. 

"  She's  ben  tellin'  me,"  he  said,  as  Ferrol  ap 
proached,  "thet  you're  a  littery  man,  an'  write 
fur  the  papers — novel-stories,  an'  pomes  an'  things. 
I  never  seen  one  before — not  as  I  know  on." 

"  I  wonder  why  not !  "  remarked  Ferrol.  "  We 
are  plentiful  enough." 

"  Air  ye  now  ?  "  he  asked  reflectively.  "  I  had 
an  idee  thar  was  only  one  on  ye  now  an'  ag'in— 
jest  now  an'  ag'in." 

He  paused  there  to  shake  his  head. 


"SHE  ALVT   YKRK."  7 1 

"  I've  often  wondered  how  ye  could  do  it,"  he 
said,  "/couldn't.  Thar's  some  as  thinks  they 
could  if  they  tried,  but  I  wa'n't  never  thataway— 
I  wa'n't  never  thataway.  I  haint  no  idee  I  could 
do  it,  not  if  I  tried  ever  so.  Seems  to  me,"  he 
went  on,  with  the  air  of  making  an  announcement 
of  so  novel  a  nature  that  he  must  present  it  mod 
estly,  "  seems  to  me,  now,  as  if  them  as  does  it 
must  hev  a  kinder  gift  fur 'it,  now.  Lord!  I 
couldn't  write  a  novel.  I  wouldn't  know  whar  to 
begin." 

"  It  is  difficult  to  decide  where,"  said  Ferrol. 

He  did  not  smile  at  all.  His  manner  was  per 
fect — so  full  of  interest,  indeed,  that  Mr.  Rogers 
quite  warmed  and  expanded  under  it. 

"The  scenes  on  'em  all,  now,  bein'  mostly  laid 
in  Bagdad,  would  be  agin  me,  if  nothin'  else  war," 
he  proceeded. 

"  Being  laid ?"  queried  Ferrol. 

"  In  Bagdad  or — wa-al,  furrin  parts  tharabouts. 
Ye  see  I  couldn't  tell  nothin'  much  about  no  place 
but  North  Ca'liny,  an'  folks  wouldn't  buy  it." 

"  But  why  not  ?  "  exclaimed  Ferrol. 

"Why,  Lord  bless  ye!"  he  said,  hilariously, 
"  they'd  know  it  wa'n't  true.  They'd  say  in  a 
minnit :  '  Why,  thar's  thet  fool  Rogers  ben  a 
writin'  a  pack  o'  lies  thet  aint  a  word  on  it  true. 


72  LOUISIANA. 

Thar   aint   no   cas-tles    in    Hamilton   County,  an' 

tli.ir  aint  no  folks  like  these  ycre.  It  just  ,iint 
so  !  '  I  'lowed  thet  th.ir  was  the  reason  the  novel- 
writers  allers  writ  about  things  a  happenin'  in  Hag- 
dad.  Ve  kin  say  most  anythin'  ye  like  about  Bag 
dad  an'  no  one  cavn't  contradict  ye.'' 

"  I  don't  seem  to  remember  main-  novels  of — 
of  that  particular  description,"  remarked  Ferrol,  in 
a  rather  low  voice.  '*  Perhaps  my  memory " 

"Ye  don't?"  he  queried,  in  much  surprise. 
"  Waal  now,  jest  you  notice  an'  see  if  it  aint  so. 
I  haint  read  many  novels  myself.  I  haint  read 
but  one " 

"Oh!"  interposed  Ferrol.  "And  it  was  a 
story  of  life  in  Bagdad." 

"  Yes;  an'  I've  heard  tell  of  others  as  was  the 
same.  1  lance  Claiborn.  now.  he  was  a-tellen  me 
of  one." 

He  checked  himself  to  speak  to  the  negro  wo 
man  who  had  presented  herself  at  a  room  door. 

"  We're  a-comin',  Nancy,"  he  said,  with  an  air 
od-fellowship.  "  Now.  ladies  an'  gentlemen." 
he  added,  rising  from  his  chair,  "walk  in  an'  have 
some  supper." 

Ferrol  and  Olivia  rose  with  some  hesitation. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  they  said.  "  We  did  not 
intend  to  give  you  trouble." 


"SHE  AINT  YERE."  73 

"  Trouble  !  "  he  replied,  as  if  scarcely  compre 
hending.  "  This  ycrc  aint  no  trouble.  Ye  haint 
ben  in  North  Ca'liny  before,  hev  ye  ?  "  he  contin 
ued,  good-naturedly.  "We're  bound  to  hev  ye 
eat,  if  ye  stay  with  us  long  enough.  We  wouldn't 
let  ye  go  'way  without  eatin',  bless  ye.  We  aint 
that  kind.  Walk  straight  in." 

He  led  them  into  a  long,  low  room,  half  kitch 
en,  half  dining-room.  It  was  not  so  ugly  as 
the  room  of  state,  because  it  was  entirely  un 
adorned.  Its  ceiled  walls  were  painted  brown 
and  stained  with  many  a  winter's  smoke.  The 
pine  table  was  spread  with  a  clean  homespun 
cloth  and  heaped  with  well-cooked,  appetizing 
food. 

"  If  ye  can  put  up  with  country  fare,  ye'll  not 
find  it  so  bad,"  said  the  host.  "  Nancy  prides 
herself  on  her  way  o'  doin'  things." 

There  never  was  more  kindly  hospitality,  Ferrol 
thought.  The  simple  generosity  which  made 
them  favored  guests  at  once  warmed  and  touched 
him.  He  glanced  across  at  Louisiana  to  sec  if 
she  was  not  as  much  pleased  as  he  was  himself. 
But  the  food  upon  her  plate  remained  almost  un 
touched.  There  was  a  strange  look  on  her  face  ; 
she  was  deadly  pale  and  her  downcast  eyes  shone 
under  their  lashes.  She  did  not  look  at  their  host 

4 


74  LOUISIANA. 

at  all  ;  it  struck  Ferrol  that  she  avoided  looking 
at  him  with  a  strong  effort.  Her  pallor  made  him 
anxious. 

"  You  are  not  well,"  he  said  to  her.  "  You  do 
not  look  well  at  all." 

Their  host  started  and  turned  toward  her. 

"  Why,  no  ye  aint !  "  he  exclaimed,  quite  trem 
ulously.  <(  Lord,  no!  Ye  cay  n't  be.  Ye  haint 
no  color.  What — what's  the  trouble,  Lou — Lord  ! 
I  was  gwine  to  call  ye  Louisianny,  an' — she  aint 
yere,  Louisianny  aint." 

He  ended  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  I'm  used  to  takin'  a  heap  o'  care  on  her,"  he 
said.  "  I've  lost  ten  on  'em,  an'  she's  all  that's  left 
me,  an' — an'  I  think  a  heap  on  her.  I — I  wish 
she  was  yere.  Ye  musn't  git  sick,  ma'am." 

The  girl  got  up  hurriedly. 

"  I  am  not  sick,  really,"  she  said.  "  The  thun 
der — I  have  a  little  headache.  I  will  go  out  on 
to  the  porch.  It's  clearing  up  now.  The  fresh 
air  will  do  me  good." 

The  old  man  rose,  too,  with  rather  a  flurried 
manner. 

"If  Louisianny  was  yere,"  he  faltered,  "she 
could  give  ye  something  to  help  ye.  Camphire 
now — sperrits  of  camphire — let  me  git  ye  some." 

44  No— no,"  said  the  girl.      "  No,  thank  you." 


"SHE  AINT  YERE."  75 

And  she  slipped  out  of  the  door  and  was  gone. 

Mr.  Rogers  sat  down  again  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  wish  she'd  let  me  git  her  some,"  he  said, 
wistfully.  "  I  know  how  it  is  with  young  critters 
like  that.  They're  dele-cate,"  anxiously.  "  Lord, 
they're  dele-cate.  They'd  oughter  hev'  their 
mothers  round  'em.  I  know  how  it  is  with  Lou- 
isianny." 

A  cloud  seemed  to  settle  upon  him.  He  rubbed 
his  grizzled  chin  with  his  hand  again  and  again, 
glancing  at  the  open  door  as  he  did  it.  It  was 
evident  that  his  heart  was  outside  with  the  girl 
who  was  like  "  Louisianny." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

"NOTHING   HAS    HURT   YOU/ 

THE  storm  was  quite  over,  and  the  sun  was  set 
ting  in  flames  of  gold  when  the  meal  was  ended 
and  they  went  out  on  the  porch  again.  Mr.  Ro 
gers  had  scarcely  recovered  himself,  but  he  had 
made  an  effort  to  do  so,  and  had  so  far  succeeded 
as  to  begin  to  describe  the  nature  of  the  one  novel 
he  had  read.  Still,  he  had  rubbed  his  chin  and 
kept  his  eye  uneasily  on  the  door  all  the  time  he 
had  been  talking. 

"  It  was  about  a  Frenchman,"  he  said,  seriously, 
"an*  his  name  was — Frankoyse — F-r-a  n-c-o-i-s, 
Frankoyse.  Thet  thar's  a  French  name,  aint  it  ? 
Me  an'  lanthy  'lowed  it  was  common  to  the  coun 
try.  It  don't  belong  yere,  Frankoyse  don't,  an' 
it's  got  a  furrin  sound." 

"  It — yes,  it  is  a  French  name,"  assented 
Ferrol. 

A  few  minutes  afterward  they  went  out.     Lou- 


"NOTHING   HAS  HURT   YOU."  77 

isiana  stood  at  the  end  of  the  porch,  leaning 
against  a  wooden  pillar  and  twisting  an  arm 
around  it. 

"  Are  ye  better  ?  "  Mr.  Rogers  asked.  "  I  am 
goin'  to  'tend  to  my  stock,  an'  if  ye  aint,  mebbe 
the  camphire — sperrits  of  camphire— 

"  I  don't  need  it,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  quite 
well." 

So  he  went  away  and  left  them,  promising  to 
return  shortly  and  "gear  up  their  critters"  for 
them  that  they  might  go  on  their  way. 

When  he  was  gone,  there  was  a  silence  of  a  few 
seconds  which  Ferrol  could  not  exactly  account  for. 
Almost  for  the  first  time  in  his  manhood,  he  did  not 
know  what  to  say.  Gradually  there  had  settled 
upon  him  the  conviction  that  something  had  gone 
very  wrong  indeed,  that  there  was  something 
mysterious  and  complicated  at  work,  that  some 
how  he  himself  was  involved,  and  that  his  posi 
tion  was  at  once  a  most  singular  and  delicate  one. 
It  was  several  moments  before  he  could  decide 
that  his  best  plan  seemed  to  be  to  try  to  conceal 
his  bewilderment  and  appear  at  ease.  And,  very 
naturally,  the  speech  he  chose  to  begin  with  was 
the  most  unlucky  he  could  have  hit  upon. 

"  He  is  charming,"  he  said.  "  What  a  lovable 
old  fellow  !  What  a  delicious  old  fellow  !  He 


78  LOUISIANA. 

has  been  telling  me  about  the  novel.  It  is  the 
the  story  of  a  Frenchman,  and  his  name — try  to 
guess  his  name." 

But  Louisiana  did  not  try. 

"  You  couldn't  guess  it,"  he  went  on.  "  It  is 
better  than  all  the  rest.  His  name  was— 
Frankoyse." 

That  instant  she  turned  round.  She  was  shak 
ing  all  over  like  a  leaf. 

'•  Good  heavens  !  "  flashed  through  his  mind. 
"  This  is  a  climax  !  This  is  the  real  creature  !  " 

"Don't  laugh  again!"  she  cried.  "Don't 
dare  to  laugh  !  I  wont  bear  it  !  He  is  my 
father  !  " 

For  a  second  or  so  he  had  not  the  breath  to 
speak. 

"  Your  father!"  he  said,  when  he  found  his 
voice.  "  Your  father !  Yours!" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "mine.  This  is  my 
home.  I  have  lived  here  all  my  life  — my  name  is 
Louisiana.  You  have  laughed  at  me  too  !  " 

It  was  the  real  creature,  indeed,  whom  he  saw. 
She  burst  into  passionate  tears. 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  kept  up  this  pretense 
to-day  because  I  was  ashamed  of  him  ?  "  she  said. 
"  Do  you  think  I  did  it  because  I  did  not  love 
him — and  respect  him— and  think  him  better  than 


"NOTHING  HAS  HURT   YOU."  79 

all  the  rest  of  the  world  ?  It  was  because  I  loved 
him  so  much  that  I  did  it — because  I  knew  so  well 
that  you  would  say  to  each  other  that  he  was  not 
like  me — that  he  was  rougher,  and  that  it  was  a 
wonder  I  belonged  to  him.  It  is  a  wonder  I  be 
long  to  him  !  I  am  not  worthy  to  kiss  his  shoes. 
I  have  been  ashamed — I  have  been  bad  enough 
for  that,  but  not  bad  enough  to  be  ashamed  of 
him.  I  thought  at  first  it  would  be  better  to  let 
you  believe  what  you  would — that  it  would  soon 
be  over,  and  we  should  never  see  each  other 
again,  but  I  did  not  think  that  I  should  have  to 
sit  by  and  see  you  laugh  because  he  does  not  know 
the  world  as  you  do — because  he  has  always  lived 
his  simple,  good  life  in  one  simple,  country  place." 

Ferrol  had  grown  as  pale  as  she  was  herself. 
He  groaned  aloud. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  cried,  "  what  shall  I  say  to  you? 
For  heaven's  sake  try  to  understand  that  it  is  not 
at  him  I  have  laughed,  but " 

"  He  has  never  been  away  from  home,"  she 
broke  in.  "  He  has  worked  too  hard  to  have 
time  to  read,  and—  '  she  stopped  and  dropped 
her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  unutterable  pride. 
"  Why  should  I  tell  you  that  ?"  she  said.  "  It 
sounds  as  if  I  were  apologizing  for  him,  and  there 
is  no  need  that  I  should." 


80  LOUISIANA. 

"  If  I  could  understand,"  began  Ferrol, — "  if 
I  could  realize " 

"  Ask  your  sister,"  she  replied.  "  It  was  her 
plan.  I  — I  "  (with  a  little  sob)  "  am'only  her  ex 
periment." 

Olivia  came  forward,  looking  wholly  subdued. 
Her  eyes  were  wet,  too. 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said.      "  It  is  all  my  fault." 

"  May  I  ask  you  to  explain  ?  "  said  Ferrol, 
rather  sternly.  "  I  suppose  some  of  this  has  been 
for  my  benefit." 

"  Don't  speak  in  that  tone,"  said  Olivia.  "  It 
is  bad  enough  as  it  is.  I — I  never  was  so 
wretched  in  my  life.  I  never  dreamed  of  its 
turning  out  in  this  way.  She  was  so  pretty  and 
gentle  and  quick  to  take  a  hint,  and — I  wanted  to 
try  the  experiment — to  see  if  you  would  guess  at 
the  truth.  I — I  had  a  theory,  and  I  was  so  much 
interested  that — I  forgot  to — to  think  of  her  very 
much.  I  did  not  think  she  would  care." 

Louisiana  broke  in. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  her  eyes  bright  with  pain, 
"  she  forgot.  I  was  very  fond  of  her,  and  I  knew 
so  very  little  that  she  forgot  to  think  of  me.  I 
was  only  a  kind  of  plaything — but  I  was  too 
proud  to  remind  her.  I  thought  it  would  be 
soon  over,  and  I  knew  how  ignorant  I  was.  I  was 


"NOTHING  HAS  HURT  YOU."  8l 

afraid  to  trust  my  feelings  at  first.  I  thought  per 
haps — it  was  vanity,  and  I  ought  to  crush  it  down. 
I  was  very  fond  of  her." 

"Oh!"  cried  Olivia,  piteously,  "don't  say 
*  was,'  Louise  !  " 

"  Don't  say  '  Louise,'  "  was  the  reply.  "  Say 
'Louisiana.'  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it  now.  I 
want  Mr.  Ferrol  to  hear  it." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  in  self-defense," 
Laurence  replied,  hopelessly. 

"  There  is  nothing  for  any  of  us  to  say  but 
good-by,"  said  Louisiana.  "  We  shall  never  see 
each  other  again.  It  is  all  over  between  us. 
You  will  go  your  way  and  I  shall  go  mine.  I 
shall  stay  here  to-night.  You  must  drive  back  to 
the  Springs  without  me.  I  ought  never  to  have 
gone  there." 

Laurence  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  sat 
shading  his  face  with  his  hand.  He  stared  from 
under  it  at  the  shining  wet  grass  and  leaves. 
Even  yet  he  scarcely  believed  that  all  this  was 
true.  He  ielt  as  if  he  were  walking  in  a  dream. 
The  worst  of  it  was  this  desperate  feeling  that 
there  was  nothing  for  him  to  say.  There  was  a 
1  )ng  silence,  but  at  last  Louisiana  left  her  place 
and  came  and  stood  before  him. 

"  I    am    going    to  meet   my  father,"  she  said. 

4* 


82  LOUISIANA. 

"  I  persuaded  him  that  I  was  only  playing  a  joke. 
He  thought  it  was  one  of  my  fancies,  and  he 
helped  me  out  because  I  asked  him  to  do  it.  I 
am  going  to  tell  him  that  I  have  told  you  the 
truth.  He  wont  know  why  I  did  it.  I  will  make 
it  easy  for  you.  I  shall  not  see  you  again.  Good- 
by." 

Ferrol's  misery  got  the  better  of  him. 

"  I  can't  bear  this  !  "  he  cried,  springing  up. 
"  I  can't,  indeed." 

She  drew  back. 

''Why  not?"  she  said.  "Nothing  has  hurt 
you.'" 

The  simple  coldness  of  her  manner  was  very 
hard  upon  him,  indeed. 

"  You  think  I  have  no  right  to  complain,"  he 
answered,  "  and  yet  see  how  you  send  me  away! 
You  speak  as  if  you  did  not  intend  to  let  me  see 
you  again " 

"  No,"  she  interposed,  "  you  shall  not  see  me 
again.  Why  should  you?  Ask  your  sister  to 
tell  you  how  ignorant  I  am.  She  knows.  Why 
should  you  come  here  ?  There  would  always  be 
as  much  to  laugh  at  as  there  has  been  to-day. 
Go  where  you  need  not  laugh.  This  is  not  the 
place  for  you.  Good-by  !  " 

Then   he    knew   he    need    say  no    more.     She 


"NOTHING  HAS  HURT   YOU."  83 

spoke  with  a  child's  passion  and  with  a  woman's 
proud  obstinacy.  Then  she  turned  to  Olivia. 
He  was  thrilled  to  the  heart  as  he  watched  her 
while  she  did  it.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  but 
she  had  put  both  her  hands  behind  her. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said. 

Olivia  broke  down  altogether. 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  are  going  to  say  good- 
by  ?  ''  she  cried.  "  I  did  not  think  you  were  so 
hard.  If  I  had  meant  any  harm — but  I  didn't — • 
and  you  look  as  if  you  never  would  forgive  me." 

"  I  may  some  time,"  answered  the  girl.  "  I 
don't  yet.  I  did  not  think  I  was  so  hard,  either." 

Her  hands  fell  at  her  sides  and  she  stood  trem 
bling  a  second.  All  at  once  she  had  broken  down, 
too. 

"  I  loved  you,"  she  said;  ''but  you  did  not 
love  me." 

And  then  she  turned  away  and  walked  slowly 
into  the  house. 

It  was  almost  half  an  hour  before  their  host 
came  to  them  with  the  news  that  their  carriage 
was  ready. 

He  looked  rather  "  off  color  "  himself  and  wore 
a  wearied  air,  but  he  was  very  uncommunicative. 

"  Louisianny  'lowed  she'd  go  to  bed  an'   sleep 


84  LOUISIANA. 

off  her  headache,  instead  of  goin'  back  to  the 
Springs,"  he  said.  "  I'll  be  thar  in  a  day  or  two 
to  'tend  to  her  bill  an'  the  rest  on  it.  I  'low  the 
waters  haint  done  her  much  good.  She  aint  at 
herself  rightly.  I  knowed  she  wasn't  when  she 
was  so  notionate  this  evenin'.  She  aint  notionate 
when  she's  at  herself." 

"  We  are  much  indebted  to  you  for  your  kind 
ness,"  said  Ferrol,  when  he  took  the  reins. 

"  Oh,  thet  aint  nothin'.  You're  welcome. 
You'd  hev  hed  a  better  time  if  Louisianny  had 
been  at  herself.  Good-by  to  ye.  Ye'll  hev  plenty 
of  moonlight  to  see  ye  home." 

Their  long  ride  was  a  silent  one.  When  they 
reached  the  end  of  it  and  Olivia  had  been  helped 
out  of  the  carriage  and  stood  in  the  moonlight 
upon  the  deserted  gallery,  where  she  had  stood 
with  Louisiana  in  the  morning,  she  looked  very 
suitably  miserable. 

"Laurence,"  she  said,  "I  don't  exactly  see 
why  you  should  feel  so  very  severe  about  it. 
I  am  sure  I  am  as  abject  as  any  one  could  wish." 

He  stood  a  moment  in  silence  looking  absently 
out  on  the  moonlight-flooded  lawn.  Everything 
was  still  and  wore  an  air  of  desolation. 

"We  won't  talk  about  it,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"  but  you  have  done  me  an  ill-turn,  Olivia." 


CHAPTER  IX. 
"DON'T  YE,  LOUISIANNY?" 

As  HE  said  it,  Louisiana  was  at  home  in  the 
house-room,  sitting  on  a  low  chair  at  her  father's 
knee  and  looking  into  the  fire.  She  had  not  gone 
to  bed.  When  he  returned  to  the  house  her  father 
had  found  her  sitting  here,  and  she  had  not  left  her 
place  since.  A  wood  fire  had  been  lighted  because 
the  mountain  air  was  cool  after  the  rains,  and  she 
seemed  to  like  to  sit  and  watch  it  and  think. 

Mr.  Rogers  himself  was  in  a  thoughtful  mood. 
After  leaving  his  departing  guests  he  had  settled 
down  with  some  deliberation.  He  had  closed  the 
doors  and  brought  forward  his  favorite  wooden- 
backed,  split-seated  chair.  Then  he  had  seated 
himself,  and  drawing  forth  his  twist  of  tobacco 
had  cut  off  a  goodly  "  chaw."  He  moved  slowly 
and  wore  a  serious  and  somewhat  abstracted  air. 
Afterward  he  tilted  backward  a  little,  crossed  his 
legs,  and  proceeded  to  ruminate. 


86  LOUISIANA. 

11  Louisianny,"  he  said,  "  Louisianny,  I'd  like 
to  hear  the  rights  of  it." 

She  answered  him  in  a  low  voice. 

"  It  is  not  worth  telling,"  she  said.  "  It  was  a 
very  poor  joke,  after  all." 

He  gave  her  a  quick  side  glance,  rubbing  his 
crossed  legs  slowly. 

"  Was  it  ?  "  he  remarked.  "  A  poor  one,  after 
all?  Why,  thet'sbad." 

The  quiet  patience  of  his  face  was  a  study.  He 
went  on  rubbing  his  leg  even  more  slowly  than 
before. 

"That's  bad,"  he  said  again.  "Now,  what 
d'ye  think  was  the  trouble,  Louisianny  ?" 

"I  made  a  mistake,"  she  answered.  "That 
was  all." 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  him  and  laid  her  folded 
arms  on  his  knee  and  her  face  upon  them,  sobbing. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  gone,"  she  cried.  "  I 
ought  to  have  stayed  at  home  with  you,  father." 

His  face  flushed,  and  he  was  obliged  to  relieve 
his  feelings  by  expectorating  into  the  fire. 

"  Louisianny,"  he  said,  "  I'd  like  to  ask  ye  one 
question.  Was  thar  anybody  thar  as  didn't— 
well,  as  didn't  show  ye  respect — as  was  slighty  or 
free  or — or  onconsiderate  ?  Fur  instants,  any 
littery  man — jest  for  instants,  now  ?  " 


" DO WT   YE,  LOUISIANNY?"  S/ 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  answered.  ''They  were  very 
kind  to  me  always." 

"  Don't  be  afeared  to  tell  me,  Louisianny,"  he 
put  it  to  her.  "  I  only  said  '  fur  instants,'  havin' 
heern  as  littery  men  was  sometimes — now  an' 
again — thataway — now  an'  ag'in." 

"They  were  very  good  to  me,"  she  repeated, 
"  always." 

"  If  they  was,"  he  returned,  "  I'm  glad  of  it. 
I'm  a-gittin'  old,  Louisianny,  an'  I  haint  much 
health — dispepsy's  what  tells  on  a  man,"  he  went 
on  deliberately.  "  But  if  thar'd  a  bin  any  one  as 
hed  done  it,  I'd  hev  hed  to  settle  it  with  him— 
I'd  hev  hed  to  hev  settled  it  with  him — liver  or  no 
liver." 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  head  and  gave  it  a  slow 
little  rub,  the  wrong  way,  but  tenderly. 

"  I  aint  goin'  to  ask  ye  no  more  questions,"  he 
said,  "  exceptin'  one.  Is  thar  anything  ye'd  like 
to  hev  done  in  the  house — in  the  parlor,  for  in 
stants,  now — s'posin'  we  was  to  say  in  the  parlor." 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried.  "  Let  it  stay  as  it  is! 
Let  it  all  stay  as  it  is  !  " 

"  Wa-al,"  he  said,  meditatively,  "  ye  know  thar 
aint  no  reason  why  it  should,  Louisianny,  if  ye'd 
like  to  hev  it  fixed  up  more  or  different.  If  ye'd 
like  a  new  paper — say  a  floweryer  one — or  a  new 


88  'LOUISIANA. 

set  of  cheers  an'  things.  Up  to  Lawyer  Hoskin's 
I  seen  'em  with  red  seats  to  'em,  an'  seemed  like 
they  did  set  things  off  sorter.  If  ye'd  like  to  hev 
some,  thar  aint  no  reason  why  ye  shouldn't. 
Things  has  gone  purty  well  with  me,  an' — an'  thar 
aint  none  left  but  you,  honey.  Lord  !  "  he  added, 
in  a  queer  burst  of  tenderness.  "  Why  shouldn't 
ye  hev  things  if  ye  want  'em  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  them,"  she  protested.  "  I  want 
nothing  but  you." 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  dead  silence.  He 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire.  He  seemed  to  be 
turning  something  over  in  his  mind.  But  at  last 
he  spoke  : 

"  Don't  ye,  Louisianny  ?  "  he  said. 

"No,"  she  answered.      "  Nothing." 

And  she  drew  his  hand  under  her  cheek  and 
kissed  it. 

He  took  it  very  quietly. 

"  Ye've  got  a  kind  heart,  Louisianny,"  he  said. 
"Young  folks  gin'rally  has,  I  think.  It's  sorter 
nat'ral,  but  Lord  !  thar's  other  things  besides  us 
old  folks,  an'  it's  nat'ral  as  ye'd  want  'em.  Thar's 
things  as  kin  be  altered,  an'  thar's  things  as  cayn't. 
Let's  alter  them  as  kin.  If  ye'd  like  a  cupoly  put 
on  the  house,  or,  say  a  coat  of  yaller-buff  paint — 
Sawyer's  new  house  is  yaller  buff,  an'  it's  mighty 


11  DO  N'T   YE,  LOUISIANNY?"  89 

showy  ;  or  a  organ  or  a  pianny,  or  more  dressin', 
ye  shall  have  'em.  Them's  things  as  it  aint  too 
late  to  set  right,  an'  ye  shall  hev  "em." 

But  she  only  cried  the  more  in  a  soft,  hushed 
way. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  so  good  to  me,"  she  said. 
(<  Don't  be  so  good  and  kind.'/ 

He  went  on  as  quietly  as  before. 

"  If — fur  instants — it  was  me  as  was  to  be 
altered,  Louisianny,  I'm  afeared — I'm  afeared  we 
couldn't  do  it.  I'm  afeared  as  I've  been  let  run 
too  long — jest  to  put  it  that  way.  We  mought 
hev  done  it  if  we'd  hev  begun  airlier — say  forty  or 
fifty  year  back — but  I'm  afeared  we  couldn't  do  it 
now.  Not  as  I  wouldn't  be  willin' — I  wouldn't 
hev  a  thing  agin  it,  an'  I'd  try  my  best — but  it's 
late.  Thar's  whar  it  is.  If  it  was  me  as  hed  to 
be  altered — made  more  moderner,  an'  to  know 
more,  an'  to  hev  more  style — I'm  afeared  thar'd 
be  a  heap  o'  trouble.  Style  didn't  never  seem  to 
come  nat'ral  to  me,  somehow.  I'm  one  o'  them 
things  as  cayn't  be  altered.  .  Let's  alter  them  as 
kin." 

"  I  don't  want  you  altered,"  she  protested. 
"  Oh  !  why  should  I,  when  you  are  such  a  good 
father — such  a  dear  father  !  " 

And  there  was  a  little  silence  again,  and  at  the 


90  LOUISIANA. 

end  of  it  he  said,  in  a  gentle,  forbearing  voice,  just 
as  he  had  said  before  : 

"  Don't  ye,  Louisianny  ?  " 

They  sat  silent  again  for  some  time  afterward  — 
indeed,  but  little  more  was  said  until  they  sepa 
rated  for  the  night.  Then,  when  she  kissed  him 
and  clung  for  a  moment  round  his  neck,  he  sud 
denly  roused  himself  from  his  prolonged  reverie. 

"Lord!"  he  said,  quite  cheerfully,  "'it  caynt 
last  long,  at  the  longest,  arter  all — an'  you're 
young  yet,  you're  young." 

"  What  can't  last  long  ?  "  she  asked,  timidly. 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  and  smiled. 

"  Nothin',"  he  answered,  "  nothin'  caynt. 
Nothin'  don't — an'  you're  young." 

And  he  was  so  far  moved  by  his  secret  thought 
that  he  smoothed  her  hair  from  her  forehead  the 
wrong  way  again  with  a  light  touch,  before  he  let 
her  go. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   GREAT   WORLD. 

THE  next  morning  he  went  to  the  Springs. 

"  I'll  go  an'  settle  up  and  bring  ye  your  trunk 
an'  things,"  he  said.  "  Mebbe  I  mayn't  git  back 
till  to-morrer,  so  don't  ye  be  oneasy.  Ef  I  feel 
tired  when  I  git  thar,  I'll  stay  overnight." 

She  did  not  think  it  likely  he  would  stay.  She 
had  never  known  him  to  remain  away  from  home 
during  a  night  unless  he  had  been  compelled  to 
do  so  by  business.  He  had  always  been  too 
childishly  fond  of  his  home  to  be  happy  away 
from  it.  He  liked  the  routine  he  had  been  used 
to  through  forty  years,  the  rising  at  daylight,  the 
regular  common  duties  he  assumed  as  his  share, 
his  own  seat  on  the  hearth  or  porch  and  at  table. 

"  Folks  may  be  clever  enough,"  he  used  to  say. 
"  They  air  clever,  as  a  rule — but  it  don't  come 
nat'ral  to  be  away.  Thar  aint  nothin'  like  home 
an'  home  ways." 


92  LOUISIANA. 

But  he  did  not  return  that  night,  or  even  the 
next  morning.  It  was  dusk  the  next  evening  be 
fore  Louisiana  heard  the  buggy  wheels  on  the 
road. 

She  had  been  sitting  on  the  porch  and  rose  to 
greet  him  when  he  drove  up  and  descended  from 
his  conveyence  rather  stiffly. 

"  Ye  wasn't  oneasy,  was  ye  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  answered  ;  "  only  it  seemed  strange 
to  know  you  were  away." 

"  I  haint  done  it  but  three  times  since  me  an' 
lanthy  was  married,"  he  said.  "  Two  o'  them 
times  was  Conference  to  Barnsville,  an'  one  was 
when  Marcelly  died." 

When  he  mounted  the  porch  steps  he  looked  up 
at  her  with  a  smile  on  his  weather-beaten  face. 

"  Was  ye  lonesome?"  he  asked.  "I  bet  ye 
was." 

"  A  little,"  she  replied.     "  Not  very." 

She  gave  him  his  chair  against  the  wooden  pil 
lar,  and  watched  him  as  he  tilted  back  and  bal 
anced  himself  on  its  back  legs.  She  saw  some 
thing  new  and  disturbed  in  his  face  and  manner. 
It  was  as  if  the  bit  of  outside  life  he  had  seen  had 
left  temporary  traces  upon  him.  She  wondered 
very  much  how  it  had  impressed  him  and  what 
he  was  thinking  about. 


THE   GREAT   WORLD.  93 

And  after  a  short  time  he  told  her. 

"  Ye  must  be  lonesome,"  he  said,  "  arter  stay- 
in'  down  thar.  It's  nat'ral.  A  body  don't  know 
until  they  see  it  theirselves.  It's  gay  thar.  Lord, 
yes  !  it's  gay,  an'  what  suits  young  folks  is  to  be 

gay." 

"  Some  of  the  people  who  were  there  did  not 
think  it  was  gay,"  Louisiana  said,  a  little  listlessly. 
"  They  were  used  to  gayer  places  and  they  often 
called  it  dull,  but  it  seemed  very  gay  to  me." 

"  I  shouldn't  want  it  no  gayer,  myself,"  he  re 
turned,  seriously.  "  Not  if  I  was  young  folks. 
Thar  must  hev  bin  three  hundred  on  'em  in  thet 
thar  dinin'-room.  The  names  o'  the  vittles  writ 
down  on  paper  to  pick  an'  choose  from,  an'  fifty 
or  sixty  waiters  flyin'  round.  An'  the  dressin' ! 
I  sot  an'  watched  'em  as  they  come  in.  I  sot  an' 
watched  'em  all  day.  Thar  was  a  heap  o'  cur'osi- 
ties  in  the  way  of  dressin'  I  never  seen  before.  I 
I  went  into  the  dancin'-roorn  at  night,  too,  an'  sot 
thar  a  spell  an'  watched  'em.  They  played  a 
play.  Some  on  'em  put  little  caps  an'  aperns  on, 
an'  rosettes  an'  fixin's.  They  sorter  danced  in  it, 
an'  they  hed  music  while  they  was  doin'  it.  It 
was  purty,  too,  if  a  body  could  hev  follered  it 
out." 

"  It  is  a  dance  they  call  the  German,"  said  Lou- 


94  LOUISIANA. 

isiana,  remembering  with  a  pang  the  first  night 
she  had  seen  it,  as  she  sat  at  her  new  friend's 
side. 

"  German,  is  it?"  he  said,  with  evident  satis 
faction  at  making  the  discovery.  "  Waal  now,  I 
ain't  surprised.  It  hed  a  kinder  Dutch  look  to 
me — kinder  Dutch  an'  furrin." 

Just  then  Nancy  announced  that  his  supper  was 
ready,  and  he  went  in,  but  on  the  threshold  he 
stopped  and  spoke  again  : 

"Them  folks  as  was  here,"  he  said,  "they'd 
gone.  They  started  the  next  mornin'  arter  they 
was  here.  They  live  up  North  somewhars,  an* 
they've  went  thar." 

After  he  had  gone  in,  Louisiana  sat  still  for  a 
little  while.  The  moon  was  rising  and  she  watched 
it  until  it  climbed  above  the  tree-tops  and  shone 
bright  and  clear.  Then  one  desperate  little  sob 
broke  from  her — only  one,  for  she  choked  the 
next  in  its  birth,  and  got  up  and  turned  toward 
the  house  and  the  room  in  which  the  kerosene 
lamp  burned  on  the  supper  table. 

"  I'll  go  an'  talk  to  him,"  she  said.  "  He  likes 
to  have  me  with  him,  and  it  will  be  better  than 
sitting  here." 

She  went  in  and  sat  near  him,  resting  her  elbows 


,    THE   GREAT  WORLD.  95 

upon  the  table  and  her  chin  on  her  hands,  and 
tried  to  begin  to  talk.  But  it  was  not  very  easy. 
She  found  that  she  had  a  tendency  to  fall  back  in 
long  silent  pauses,  in  which  she  simply  looked  at 
him  with  sad,  tender  eyes. 

"  I  stopped  at  Casey's  as  I  came  on,"  he  said, 
at  last.  "  Thet  thar  was  one  thing  as  made  me 
late.  Thar's — thar's  somethin'  I  hed  on  my  mind 
fur  him  to  do  fur  me." 

"  For  Casey  to  do  ?  "  she  said. 

He  poured  his  coffee  into  his  saucer  and  an 
swered  with  a  heavy  effort  at  speaking  unconcern 
edly. 

"  I'm  agoin'  to  hev  him  fix  the  house,"  he  said. 

She  was  going  to  ask  him  what  he  meant  to 
have  done,  but  he  did  not  give  her  time. 

"  lanthy  an'  me,"  he  said,  "  we'd  uscder  say 
we'd  do  it  sometime,  an'  I'm  agoin'  to  do  it  now. 
The  rooms,  now,  they're  low — whar  they're  not 
to  say  small,  they're  low  an' — an'  old-timey. 
Thar  aint  no  style  to  'em.  Them  rooms  to  the 
Springs,  now,  they've  got  style  to  'em.  An' 
rooms  kin  be  altered  easy  enough." 

He  drank  his  coffee  slowly,  set  his  saucer  down 
and  went  on  with  the  same  serious  air  of  having 
broached  an  ordinary  subject. 

"  Goin'  to  the  Springs  has  sorter  started  me 


96  LOUISIANA. 

off,"  he  said.  "  Seein'  things  diff'rent  does  start 
a  man  off.  Casey  an'  his  men'll  be  here  Mon 
day." 

"  It  seems  so — sudden,"  Louisiana  said.  She 
gave  a  slow,  wondering  glance  at  the  old  smoke- 
stained  room.  "  I  can  hardly  fancy  it  looking  any 
other  way  than  this.  It  wont  be  the  same  place 
at  all." 

He  glanced  around,  too,  with  a  start.  His 
glance  was  hurried  and  nervous. 

"  Why,  no,"  he  said,  "  it  wont,  but — it'll  be 
stylisher.  It'll  be  kinder  onfamil'ar  at  first,  but  I 
dessay  we  shall  get  used  to  it — an'  it'll  be  stylisher. 
An'  style — whar  thar's  young  folks,  thet's  what's 
wanted — style." 

She  was  so  puzzled  by  his  manner  that  she  sat 
regarding  him  with  wonder.  But  he  went  on 

o  o 

talking  steadily  about  his  plans  until  the  meal 
was  over.  He  talked  of  them  when  they  went 
back  to  the  porch  together  and  sat  in  the  moon 
light.  He  scarcely  gave  her  an  opportunity  to 
speak.  Once  or  twice  the  idea  vaguely  occurred 
to  her  that  for  some  reason  he  did  not  want  her 
to  talk.  It  was  a  relief  to  her  only  to  be  called 
upon  to  listen,  but  still  she  was  puzzled. 

"  When  we  git  fixed  up,"  he  said,  "ye  kin  hev 
your  friends  yere.  Thar's  them  folks,  now,  as 


THE   GREAT   WORLD.  97 

was  yere  the  other  day  from  the  Springs — when 
we're  fixed  up  ye  mought  invite  'em — next  sum 
mer,  fur  instants.  Like  as  not  I  shall  be  away 
myself  an' — ye'd  hev  room  a  plenty.  Ye  wouldn't 
need  me,  ye  see.  An',  Lord  !  how  it'd  serprise 
'em  to  come  an'  find  ye  all  fixed." 

"  I  should  never  ask  them,"  she  cried,  impetu 
ously.      "  And — they  wouldn't  come  if  I  did." 

"  Mebbe  they  would,"  he   responded,  gravely, 
"  if  ye  was  fixed  up." 

"  I  don't  want  them,"  she    said,  passionately. 
"  Let  them  keep  their  place.     I  don't  want  them." 

"  Don't    ye,"    he    said,    in    his    quiet    voice. 
"  Don't  ye,  Louisianny  ?  " 

And  he  seemed  to  sink  into  a  reverie  and  did 
not  speak  again  for  quite  a  long  time. 
5 


CHAPTER  XL 

A   RUSTY   NAIL. 

ON  Monday  Casey  and  his  men  came.  Loui 
siana  and  her  father  were  at  breakfast  when  they 
struck  their  first  blow  at  the  end  of  the  house 
which  was  to  be  renovated  first. 

The  old  man,  hearing  it,  started  violently — so 
violently  that  he  almost  upset  the  coffee  at  his 
elbow. 

He  laughed  a  tremulous  sort  of  laugh. 

"  Why,  I'm  narvous  !  "  he  said.  "  Now,  jest  to 
think  o'  me  a-bein'  narvous  !  " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Louisiana,  "  I  am  nervous  as 
well.  It  made  me  start  too.  It  had  such  a  strange 
sound." 

"  Waal,  now,"  he  answered,  "  come  to  think 
on  it,  it  hed — sorter.  Seems  like  it  wasn't  sca'cely 
nat'ral.  P'r'aps  that's  it." 

Neither  of  them  ate  much  breakfast,  and  when 
the  meal  was  over  they  went  out  together  to  look 


A    RUSTY  NAIL,  99 

at  the  workmen.  They  were  very  busy  tearing 
off  weather- boarding  and  wrenching  out  nails. 
Louisiana  watched  them  with  regretful  eyes.  In 
secret  she  was  wishing  that  the  low  ceilings  and 
painted  walls  might  remain  as  they  were.  She 
had  known  them  so  long. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  is  doing  it  to  please  me,"  she 
thought.  "  He  does  not  believe  me  when  I  say 
I  don't  want  it  altered.  He  would  never  have  had 
it  done  for  himself." 

Her  father  had  seated  himself  on  a  pile  of  plank. 
He  was  rubbing  his  crossed  leg  as  usual,  but  his 
hand  trembled  slightly. 

"  I  druv  them  nails  in  myself,"  he  said.  "  lan- 
thy  wasn't  but  nineteen.  She'd  set  yere  an'  watch 
me.  It  was  two  or  three  months  arter  we  was 
married.  She  was  mighty  proud  on  it  when  it 
was  all  done.  Little  Tom  he  was  born  in  thet 
thar  room.  The  rest  on  'em  was  born  in  the  front 
room,  'n'  they  all  died  thar.  lanthy  she  died  thar. 
I'd  useder  think  I  should ': 

He  stopped  and  glanced  suddenly  at  Louisiana. 
He  pulled  himself  up  and  smiled. 

"  Ye  aint  in  the  notion  o'  hevin'  the  cupoly," 
he  said.  u  We  kin  hev  it  as  soon  as  not — 'n' 
seems  ter  me  thar's  a  heap  o'  style  to  'em." 


100  LOUISIANA. 

il  Any  thing  that  pleases  you  will  please  m< 
father,"  she  said. 

He  gave  her  a  mild,  cheerful  look. 

"  Ye  don't  take  much  int'russ  in  it  yet,  do  ye  ? 
he  said.  "  But  ye  will  when  it  gits  along  kinde: 
Lord  !  ye'll  be  as  impatient  as  lanthy  an'  me  wa 
when  it  gits  along." 

She  tried  to  think  she  would,  but  without  ver 
much  success.  She  lingered  about  for  a  while 
and  at  last  went  to  her  own  room  at  the  other  en 
of  the  house  and  shut  herself  in. 

Her  trunk  had  been  carried  upstairs  and  set  i 
its  old  place  behind  the  door.  She  opened  it  an 
began  to  drag  out  the  dresses  and  other  adorr 
ments  she  had  taken  with  her  to  the  Spring' 
There  was  the  blue  muslin.  She  threw  it  on  th 
floor  and  dropped  beside  it,  half  sitting,  half  knee 
ing.  She  laughed  quite  savagely. 

"  I  thought  it  was  very  nice  when  I  made  it, 
she  said.  "  I  wonder  how  she  would  like  to  wea 
it  ?  "  She  pulled  out  one  thing  after  another  unt 
the  floor  around  her  was  strewn.  Then  she  got  u 
and  left  them,  and  ran  to  the  bed  and  threw  herse 
into  a  chair  beside  it,  hiding  her  face  in  the  pillov 

"  Oh,  how  dull  it  is,  and  how  lonely  !  "  she  saic 
"  What  shall  I  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 


A   RUSTY  NAIL.  IOI 

And  while  she  sobbed  she  heard  the  blows  upon 
the  boards  below. 

Before  she  went  down-stairs  she  replaced  the 
things  she  had  taken  from  the  trunk.  She  packed 
them  away  neatly,  and,  having  done  it,  turned  the 
key  upon  them. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  at  dinner,  "  there  are  some 
things  upstairs  I  want  to  send  to  Cousin  Jenny. 
I  have  done  with  them,  and  I  think  she'd  like  to 
have  them." 

11  Dresses  an'  things,  Louisianny  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  I  shall  not  need  them 
any  more.  I — don't  care  for  them." 

"Don't—  "  he  began,  but  stopped  short,  and, 
lifting  his  glass,  swallowed  the  rest  of  the  sentence 
in  a  large  glass  of  milk. 

"  I'll  tell  Leander  to  send  fer  it,"  he  said  after 
ward.  "  Jenny'll  be  real  sot  up,  I  reckon.  Her 
pappy  bein'  so  onfort'nit,  she  don't  git  much." 

He  ate  scarcely  more  dinner  than  breakfast,  and 
spent  the  afternoon  in  wandering  here  and  there 
among  the  workmen.  Sometimes  he  talked  to 
them,  and  sometimes  sat  on  his  pile  of  plank  and 
watched  them  in  silence.  Once,  when  no  one  was 
looking,  he  stooped  down  and  picked  up  a  rusty 
nail  which  had  fallen  from  its  place  in  a  piece  of 
board.  After  holding  it  in  his  hand  for  a  little  he 


102  LOUISIANA. 

furtively  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  and  seemed  to 
experience  a  sense  of  relief  after  he  had  done  it. 

"  Ye  don't  do  nothin'  toward  helpin'  us,  Uncle 
Elbert,"  said  one  of  the  young  men.  (Every 
youngster  within  ten  miles  knew  him  as  "  Uncle 
Elbert.")  "  Ye  aint  as  smart  as  ye  was  when  last 
ye  built,  air  ye  ?  " 

"  No,  boys,"  he  answered,  "  I  ain't.  That's  so. 
I  aint  as  smart,  an',"  he  added,  rather  hurriedly, 
"  it'd  sorter  go  agin  me  to  holp  ye  at  what  ye're 
doin'  now.  Not  as  I  don't  think  it's  time  it  was 
done,  but — it'd  sorter  go  ag'in  me." 

When  Louisiana  entered  the  house-room  at 
dusk,  she  found  him  sitting  by  the  fire,  his  body 
drooping  forward,  his  head  resting  listlessly  on  his 
hand. 

"  I've  got  a  touch  o'  dyspepsy,  Louisianny,"  he 
said,  "  an'  the  knockin'  hes  kinder  giv  me  a  head 
ache.  I'll  go  to  bed  airly." 


CHAPTER   XII. 


SHE  had  been  so  full  of  her  own  sharp  pain  and 
humiliation  during  the  first  few  days  that  perhaps 
she  had  not  been  so  quick  to  see  as  she  would 
otherwise  have  been,  but  the  time  soon  came 
when  she  awakened  to  a  bewildered  sense  of  new 
and  strange  trouble.  She  scarcely  knew  when  it 
was  that  she  first  began  to  fancy  that  some  change 
had  taken  place  in  her  father.  It  was  a  change 
she  could  not  comprehend  when  she  recognized 
its  presence.  It  was  no  alteration  of  his  old,  slow, 
quiet  faithfulness  to  her.  He  had  never  been  so 
faithfully  tender.  The  first  thing  which  awakened 
her  thought  of  change  was  his  redoubled  tender 
ness.  She  found  that  he  watched  her  constantly, 
in  a  patient,  anxious  way.  When  they  were  to 
gether  she  often  discovered  that  he  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  her  when  he  thought  she  was  not  aware 
of  his  gaze.  He  seemed  reluctant  to  leave  her 


104  LOUISIANA. 

alone,  and  continually  managed  to  be  near  her, 
and  yet  it  grew  upon  her  at  last  that  the  old, 
homely  good-fellowship  between  them  had  some 
how  been  broken  in  upon,  and  existed  no  longer. 
It  was  not  that  he  loved  her  any  less — she  was 
sure  of  that  ;  but  she  had  lost  something,  without 
knowing  when  or  how  she  had  lost  it,  or  even  ex 
actly  what  it  was.  But  his  anxiety  to  please  her 
grew  day  by  day.  He  hurried  the  men  who  were 
at  work  upon  the  house. 

"  Louisianny,  she'll  enjoy  it  when  it's  done," 
he  said  to  them.  "  Hurry  up,  boys,  an'  do  yer 
plum  best." 

She  had  been  at  home  about  two  weeks  when 
he  began  to  drive  over  to  the  nearest  depot  every 
day  at  "train  time."  It  was  about  three  miles 
distant,  and  he  went  over  for  several  days  in  his 
spring  wagon.  At  first  he  said  nothing  of  his  rea 
son  for  making  the  journey,  but  one  morning,  as 
he  stood  at  his  horses'  heads,  he  said  to  Louisiana, 
without  turning  to  look  at  her,  and  affecting  to  be 
very  busy  with  some  portion  of  the  harness  : 

"  I've  ben  expectin'  of  some  things  fer  a  day  or 
so,  an'  they  haint  come.  I  wasn't  sure  when  I 
oughter  to  look  fer  'em — mebbe  I've  ben  lookin' 
too  soon — fer  they  haint  come  yet." 

"  Where  were  they  to  come  from  ?  "  she  asked. 


"MEBBE."  105 

"  From — from  New  York  City." 

"  From  New  York  ?  "  she  echoed,  trying  to 
show  an  interest.  "  I  did  not  know  you  sent 
there,  father." 

"I  haint  never  done  it  afore,"  he  answered. 
"  These  yere  things— mebbe  they'll  come  to-day, 
an'  then  ye'll  see  'em." 

She  asked  no  further  questions,  fancying  that 
he  had  been  buying  some  adornments  for  the  new 
rooms  which  were  to  be  a  surprise  for  her.  After 
he  had  gone  away  she  thought  a  little  sadly  of 
his  kindness  to  her,  and  her  unvvorthiness  of  it. 
At  noon  he  came  back  and  brought  his  prize  with 
him. 

He  drove  up  slowly  with  it  behind  him  in  the 
wagon — a  large,  shining,  new  trunk — quite  as 
big  and  ponderous  as  any  she  had  seen  at  the 
Springs. 

He  got  down  and  came  up  to  her  as  she  stood 
on  the  porch.  He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  I'll  hev  'em  took  in  an'  ye  kin  look  at  'em," 
he  said.  "  It's  some  new  things  ye  was  a-need- 
in'." 

She  began  to  guess  dimly  at  what  he  meant, 
but  she  followed  the  trunk  into  the  house  without 
speaking.  When  they  set  it  down  she  stotfd 
near  while  her  father  fumbled  for  the  key  and 


106  LOUISIANA. 

found  it,  turned  it  in  the  lock  and  threw  back  the 
lid. 

"They're  some  things  ye  was  a-needin',"  he 
said.  "  I  hope  ye'll  like  'em,  honey." 

She  did  not  know  what  it  was  in  his  voice,  or 
his  face,  or  his  simple  manner  that  moved  her  so, 
but  she  did  not  look  at  what  he  had  brought  at 
all — she  ran  to  him  and  caught  his  arm,  dropped 
her  face  on  it,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Father— father  !  "  she  cried.     "  Oh,  father  !  " 

"  Look  at  'em,  Louisianny,"  he  persisted,  gen 
tly,  "  an'  see  if  they  suit  ye.  Thar  aint  no  reason 
to  cry,  honey." 

The  words  checked  her  and  made  her  feel  un 
certain  and  bewildered  again.  She  stopped  cry 
ing  and  looked  up  at  him,  wondering  if  her  emo 
tion  troubled  him,  but  he  did  not  meet  her  eye, 
and  only  seemed  anxious  that  she  should  see  what 
he  had  brought. 

"  I  didn't  tell  ye  all  I  hed  in  my  mind  when  I 
went  to  the  Springs,"  he  said.  "  I.  hed  a  notion 
I'd  like  to  see  fer  myself  how  things  was.  I 
knowed  ye'd  hev  an  idee  thet  ye  couldn't  ask  me 
fer  the  kind  o'  things  ye  wanted,  an'  I  knowed 
/  knowed  nothin'  about  what  they  was,  so  I  ses 
to  myself,  '  I'll  go  an'  stay  a  day  an'  watch  and 
find  out.'  An'  I  went,  an'  I  found  out.  Thar 


"MEBBE"  107 

was  a  young  woman  thar  as  was  dressed  purtier 
than  any  of  'em.  An'  she  was  clever  an'  friendly, 
an'  I  managed  it  so  we  got  a-talkin'.  She  hed  on 
a  dress  that  took  my  fancy.  It  was  mighty  black 
an'  thick — ye  know  it  was  cold  after  the  rains — an' 
when  we  was  talkin'  I  asked  her  if  she  mind  a- 
tellin'  me  the  name  of  it  an'  whar  she'd  bought  it. 
An'  she  laughed  some,  an'  said  it  was  velvet,  an' 
she'd  got  it  to  some  store  in  New  York  City. 
An'  I  asked  her  if  she'd  write  it  down  ;  I'd  a  little 
gal  at  home  I  wanted  a  dress  ofT'n  it  fer — an'  then, 
someways,  we  warmed  up,  an'  I  ses  to  her,  *  She 
aint  like  me.  If  ye  could  see  her  ye'd  never  guess 
we  was  kin.'  She  hadn't  never  seen  ye.  She 
come  the  night  ye  left,  but  when  I  told  her  more 
about  ye,  she  ses,  *  I  think  I've  heern  on  her.  I 
heern  she  was  very  pretty.'  An'  I  told  her  what 
I'd  hed  in  my  mind,  an'  it  seemed  like  it  took  her 
fancy,  an'  she  told  me  to  get  a  paper  an'  pencil 
an'  she'd  tell  me  what  to  send  fer  an'  whar  to  send. 
An'  I  sent  fer  'em,  an'  thar  they  air." 

She  could  not  tell  him  that  they  were  things  not 
fit  for  her  to  wear.  She  looked  at  the  rolls  of  silk 
and  the  laces  and  feminine  extras  with  a  bewil 
dered  feeling. 

"  They  are  beautiful  things,"  she  said.  "  I 
never  thought  of  having  such  things  for  my  own." 


108  LOUISIANA. 

"  Thar's  no  reason  why  ye  shouldn't  hev  'em," 
he  said.  "  I'd  oughter  hev  thought  of  'em  afore. 
Do  they  suit  ye,  Louisianny  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  very  hard  to  please  if  they  didn't," 
she  answered.  "  They  are  only  too  beautiful  for 
— a  girl  like  me.'' 

"  They  cayn't  be  that,"  he  said,  gravely.  "I 
didn't  see  none  no  handsomer  than  you  to  the 
Springs,  Louisianny,  an'  I  ses  to  the  lady  as  writ 
it  all  down  fer  me,  I  ses,  'What  I  want  is  fer  her 
to  hev  what  the  best  on  'em  hev.  I  don't  want 
nothin'  no  less  than  what  she'd  like  to  hev  if  she'd 
ben  raised  in  New  York  or  Philadelphy  City.  Thar 
aint  no  reason  why  she  shouldn't  hev  it.  Out  of 
eleven  she's  all  that's  left,  anvshe  desarves  it  all. 
She's  young  an'  handsome,  and  she  desarves  it 
all.'" 

"  What  did  she  say  to  that?  "  Louisiana  asked. 

He  hesitated  a  moment  before  answering. 

"  She  looked  at  me  kinder  queer  fer  a  minnit," 
he  replied  at  length.  "An'  then  she  ses,  'She'd 
oughter  be  a  very  happy  gal,'  ses  she,  '  with  such 
a  father,'  an'  I  ses,  '  I  'low  she  is — mebbe.' 

"Only  maybe?"  said  the  girl,  "only  maybe, 
father  ?  " 

She  dropped  the  roll  of  silk  she  had  been  hold 
ing  and  went  to  him.  She  put  her  hand  on  his 


"MEBBE."  109 

arm  again  and  shook  it  a  little,  laughing  in  the 
same  feverish  fashion  as  when  she  had  gone  out 
to  him  on  the  porch  on  the  day  of  her  return. 
She  had  suddenly  flushed  up,  and  her  eyes  shone 
as  he  had  seen  them  then. 

"Only  maybe,"  she  said.  "  Why  should  I 
be  unhappy?  There's  no  reason.  Look  at  me, 
with  my  fine  house  and  my  new  things  !  There 
isn't  any  one  happier  in  the  world  !  There  is 
nothing  left  for  me  to  wish  for.  I  have  got  too 
much  !  " 

A  new  mood  seemed  to  have  taken  possession 
of  her  all  at  once.  She  scarcely  gave  him  a  chance 
to  speak.  She  drew  him  to  the  trunk's  side,  and 
made  him  stand  near  while  she  took  the  things 
out  one  by  one.  She  exclaimed  and  laughed  over 
them  as  she  drew  them  forth.  She  held  the  dress 
materials  up  to  her  waist  and  neck  to  see  how  the 
colors  became  her  ;  she  tried  on  laces  and  sacques 
and  furbelows  and  the  hats  which  were  said  to 
have  come  from  Paris. 

"  What  will  they  say  when  they  see  me  at  meet 
ing  in  them  ?"  she  said.  "Brother  Horner  will 
forget  his  sermons.  There  never  were  such  things 
in  Bowersville  before.  I  am  almost  afraid  they 
will  think  I  am  putting  on  airs." 


1 10  LOUISIANA. 

When  she  reached  a  box  of  long  kid  gloves  at 
the  bottom,  she  burst  into  such  a  shrill  laugh  that 
her  father  was  startled.  There  was  a  tone  of  false 
exhilaration  about  her  which  was  not  what  he  had 
expected. 

"  See  \  "  she  cried,  holding  one  of  the  longest 
pairs  up,  "  eighteen  buttons  !  And  cream  color  ! 
I  can  wear  them  with  the  cream-colored  silk  and 
cashmere  at — at  a  festival !  " 

When  she  had  looked  at  everything,  the  rag 
carpet  was  strewn  with  her  riches, — with  fashion 
able  dress  materials,  with  rich  and  delicate  colors, 
with  a  hundred  feminine  and  pretty  whims. 

"  How  could  I  help  but  be  happy  ?  "  she  said. 
"  I  am  like  a  queen.  I  don't  suppose  queens  have 
very  much  more,  though  we  don't  know  much 
about  queens,  do  we  ?  " 

She  hung  round  her  father's  neck  and  kissed 
him  in  a  fervent,  excited  way. 

"  You  good  old  father !  "  she  said,  "  you  sweet 
old  father  !  " 

He  took  one  of  her  soft,  supple  hands  and  held 
it  between  both  his  brown  and  horny  ones. 

"  Louisianny,"  he  said,  "  I  'low  to  make  ye  hap 
py  ;  ef  the  Lord  haint  nothin'  agin  it,  I  'low  to  do 
it !  " 


"MEBBE." 

He  went  out  after  that,  and  left  her  alone  to  set 
her  things  to  rights  ;  but  when  he  had  gone  and 
closed  the  door,  she  did  not  touch  them.  She 
threw  herself  down  flat  upon  the  floor  in  the  midst 
of  them,  her  slender  arms  flung  out,  her  eyes  wide 
open  and  wild  and  dry. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

A   NEW   PLAN. 

AT  last  the  day  came  when  the  house  was  fin 
ished  and  stood  big  and  freshly  painted  and  bare 
in  the  sun.  Late  one  afternoon  in  the  Indian 
summer,  Casey  and  his  men,  having  bestowed 
their  last  touches,  collected  their  belongings  and 
went  away,  leaving  it  a  lasting  monument  to  their 
ability.  Inside,  instead  of  the  low  ceilings,  and 
painted  wooden  walls,  there  were  high  rooms  and 
plaster  and  modern  papering  ;  outside,  instead  of 
the  variegated  piazza,  was  a  substantial  portico. 
The  whole  had  been  painted  a  warm  gray,  and 
Casey  considered  his  job  a  neat  one  and  was  proud 
of  it.  When  they  were  all  gone  Louisiana  went 
out  into  the  front  yard  to  look  at  it.  She  stood 
in  the  grass  and  leaned  against  an  apple-tree.  It 
was  near  sunset,  and  both  trees  and  grass  were 
touched  with  a  yellow  glow  so  deep  and  mellow 
that  it  was  almost  a  golden  haze.  Now  that  thtr 


A   NEW  PLAN.  113 

long-continued  hammering  and  sawing  was  at  an 
end  and  all  traces  of  its  accompaniments  removed, 
the  stillness  seemed  intense.  There  was  not  a 
breath  of  wind  stirring,  or  the  piping  of  a  bird  to 
be  heard.  The  girl  clasped  her  slender  arms  about 
the  tree's  trunk  and  rested  her  cheek  against  the 
rough  bark.  She  looked  up  piteously. 

"  I  must  try  to  get  used  to  it,"  she  said.  "  It  is 
very  much  nicer — and  I  must  try  to  get  used  to 
it." 

But  the  strangeness  of  it  was  very  hard  on  her 
at  first.  When  she  looked  at  it  she  had  a  startled 
feeling — as  if  when  she  had  expected  to  see  an  old 
friend  she  had  found  herself  suddenly  face  to  face 
with  a  stranger. 

Her  father  had  gone  to  Bowersville  early  in  the 
day,  and  she  had  been  expecting  his  return  for  an 
hour  or  so.  She  left  her  place  by  the  tree  at  length 
and  went  to  the  fence  to  watch  for  his  coming  down 
the  road.  But  she  waited  in  vain  so  long  that  she 
got  tired  again  and  wandered  back  to  the  house 
and  around  to  the  back  to  where  a  new  barn  and 
stable  had  been  built,  painted  and  ornamented  in 
accordance  with  the  most  novel  designs.  There 
was  no  other  such  barn  or  stable  in  the  country, 
and  their  fame  was  already  wide-spread  and  of  an 
enviable  nature. 


114  LOUISIANA. 

As  she  approached  these  buildings  Louisiana 
glanced  up  and  uttered  an  exclamation.  Her 
father  was  sitting  upon  the  door-sill  of  the  barn, 
and  his  horse  was  turned  loose  to  graze  upon  the 
grass  before  him. 

"  Father,"  the  girl  cried,  "  I  have  been  waiting 
for  you.  I  thought  you  had  not  come." 

"  I've  been  yere  a  right  smart  while,  Louisian- 
ny,"  he  answered.  "Ye  wasn't  'round  when  I 
come,  an'  so  ye  didn't  see  me,  I  reckon." 

He  was  pale,  and  spoke  at  first  heavily  and  as 
if  with  an  effort,  but  almost  instantly  he  bright 
ened. 

"  I've  jest  ben  a-settin'  yere  a-steddyin',"  he 
said.  "A  man  wants  to  see  it  a  few  times  an' 
take  it  sorter  gradual  afore  he  kin  do  it  jestice. 
A-lookin'  at  it  from  yere,  now,"  with  a  wide  sweep 
of  his  hand  toward  the  improvements,  "  ye  kin  see 
how  much  style  thar  is  to  it.  Seems  to  me  thet 
the — the  mountains  now,  they  look  better.  It — 
waal  it  kinder  sets  'em  off — it  kinder  sets  'em  off." 

"  It  is  very  much  prettier,"  she  answered. 

"  Lord,  yes  !  Thar  aint  no  comparison.  I  was 
jest  a-settin'  thinkin'  thet  anyone  thet'd  seed  it  as 
it  was  afore  they'd  not  know  it.  lanthy,  fer  in 
stants — lanthy  she  wouldn't  sca'cely  know  it  was 
home — thar's  so  much  style  to  it." 


A   NEW  PLAN.  US 

He  suddenly  stopped  and  rested  against  the 
door-lintel.  He  was  pale  again,  though  he  kept 
up  a  stout  air  of  good  cheer. 

"  Lord  !"  he  said,  after  a  little  pause,  "  it's  a 
heap  stylishcr  !  " 

Presently  he  bent  down  and  picked  up  a  twig 
which  lay  on  the  ground  at  his  feet.  He  began 
to  strip  the  leaves  from  it  with  careful  slowness, 
and  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  it  as  he  went  on 
talking. 

"  Ye'll  never  guess  who  I've  ben  a-talkin'  to  to 
day,  an'  what  I've  ben  talkin'  to  'em  about." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  knee  caressingly. 

"Tell  me,  father,"  she  said. 

He  laughed  a  jerky,  high-pitched  laugh. 

"  I've  ben  talkin'  to  Jedge  Powers,"  he  said. 
"  He's  up  yere  from  Howelsville,  a-runnin'  fer 
senator.  He's  sot  his  mind  on  makin'  it,  too,  an' 
he  was  a-tellin'  me  what  his  principles  was.  He 
- — he's  got  a  heap  o'  principles.  An'  he  told  me 
his  wife  an'  family  was  a-goin'  to  Europe.  He 
was  mighty  sosherble — an'  he  said  they  was  a-goin' 
to  Europe." 

He  had  stripped  the  last  leaf  from  the  twig  and 
had  begun  upon  the  bark.  Just  at  this  juncture 
it  slipped  from  his  hand  and  fell  on  the  ground. 
He  bent  down  iigain  to  pick  it  up. 


Il6  LOUISIANA. 

"  Louisianny,"  he  said,  "how — would  ye  like 
to  go  to  Europe  ?  " 

She  started  back  amazed,  but  she  could  not 
catch  even  a  glimpse  of  his  face,  he  was  so  busy 
with  the  twig. 

"  I  go  to  Europe — I  !  "  she  said.  (<  I  don't — I 
never  thought  of  it.  It  is  not  people  like  us  who 
go  to  Europe,  father." 

"  Louisianny,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "  what's  agin 
it  ?  Thar  aint  nothin' — nothin'  !  It  corne  in  my 
mind  when  Powers  was  a-tellin'  me.  I  ses  to  my 
self,  '  Why,  here's  the  very  thing  fer  Louisianny  ! 
Travel  an'  furrin  langwidges  an'  new  ways  o'  doin'. 
It's  what  she'd  oughter  lied  long  ago.'  An'  Powers 
he  went  on  a-talkin'  right  while  I  was  a-steddyin, 
an'  he  ses  :  '  Whar's  that  pretty  darter  o'  yourn 
thet  we  was  so  took  with  when  we  passed  through 
Hamilton  last  summer?  Why,'  ses  he, — he  ses  it 
hisself,  Louisianny, — '  why  don't  ye  send  her  to 
Europe  ?  Let  her  go  with  my  wife.  She'll  take 
care  of  her.'  An'  I  stopped  him  right  thar.  '  Do 
ye  mean  it,  Jedge  ?  '  I  ses.  *  Yes,'  ses  he.  *  Why 
not  ?  My  wife  an'  daughter  hev  talked  about  her 
many  a  time,  an'  said  how  they'd  like  to  see  her 
agin.  Send  her,'  ses  he.  '  You're  a  rich  man,  an' 
ye  kin  afford  it,  Squire,  if  ye  will.'  An'  I  ses, 
'  So  I  kin  ef  she'd  like  to  go,  an'  what's  more,  I'm 


A  NEW  PLAN. 

a-goin'  to  ask  her  ef  she  would — fer  thar  aint  noth- 
in'  agin  it — nothinV  ' 

He  paused  for  a  moment  and  turned  to  look  at 
her. 

"  Thet's  what  I  was  steddyin'  about  mostly, 
Louisianny,"  he  said,  "  when  I  set  yere  afore  ye 
come." 

She  had  been  sitting  beside  him,  and  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  stood  before  him. 

"  Father,"  she  cried,  "  are  you  tired  of  me  ?" 

"Tired  of  ye,  Louisianny?"  he  repeated. 
"Tired  of  ye?  " 

She  flung  out  her  hand  with  a  wild  gesture  and 
burst  into  tears. 

"  Are  you  tired  of  me  ?  "  she  said  again.  "  Don't 
you  love  me  any  more  ?  Don't  you  want  me  as 
you  used  to  ?  Could  you  do  without  me  for  months 
and  months  and  know  I  was  far  away  and  couldn't 
come  to  you  ?  No,  you  couldn't.  You  couldn't. 
I  know  that,  though  something — I  don't  know 
what — has  come  between  us,  and  I  feel  it  every 
minute,  and  most  when  you  are  kindest.  Is  there 
nothing  in  the  way  of  my  going  away — nothing  ? 
Think  again." 

"  Louisianny,"  he  answered,  "  I  cayn't  think  of 
nothin' — thet's  partic'lar." 

She  slipped  down  on  her  knee  and  threw  herself 


Il8  LOUISIANA. 

on  his  breast,  clinging  to  him  with  all  her  young 
strength. 

"  Are  you  nothing  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Is  all  your 
love  nothing  ?  Are  all  your  beautiful,  good 
thoughts'  for  my  happiness  '  nothing  '  ?  Is  your 
loneliness  nothing  ?  Shall  I  leave  you  here  to  live 
by  yourself  in  the  new  home  which  is  strange  to 
you — after  you  have  given  up  the  old  one  you 
knew  and  loved  for  me  ?  Oh  !  what  has  made 
you  think  I  have  no  heart,  and  no  soul,  and  noth 
ing  to  be  grateful  with  ?  Have  I  ever  been  bad 
and  cruel  and  hard  to  you  that  you  can  think  it  ?  " 

She  poured  forth  her  love  and  grief  and  tender 
reproach  on  his  breast  with  such  innocent  fervor 
that  he  could  scarcely  bear  it.  His  eyes  were  wet 
too,  and  his  furrowed,  sunburnt  cheeks,  and  his 
breath  came  short  and  fast  while  he  held  her  close 
in  his  arms. 

"Honey,"  he  said,  just  as  he  had  often  spoken 
to  her  when  she  had  been  a  little  child,  "  Louisi- 
anny,  honey,  no  !  No,  never !  I  neVer  bed  a 
thought  agin  ye,  not  in  my  bottermost  heart.  Did 
ye  think  it  ?  Lord,  no  !  Thar  aint  nothin'  ye've 
never  done  in  yer  life  that  was  meant  to  hurt  or 
go  agin  me.  Ye  never  did  go  agin  me.  Ye  aint 
like  me,  honey  ;  ye're  kinder  finer.  Ye  was  horned 
so.  I  seed  it  when  ye  was  in  yer  cradle.  I've 


A   NEW  PLAN.  119 

said  it  to  lanthy  (an'  sence  ye're  growed  up  I've 
said  it  more).  Thar's  things  ye'd  oughter  hev 
thet's  d  iff 'rent  from  what  most  of  us  wants — it's 
through  you  a-bein'  so  much  finer.  Ye  mustn't 
be  so  tender-hearted,  honey,  ye  mustn't," 

She  clung  more  closely  to  him  and  cried  afresh, 
though  more  softly. 

"  Nothing  shall  take  me  away  from  you,"  she 
said,  "  ever  again.  I  went  away  once,  and  it 
would  have  been  better  if  I  had  stayed  at  home. 
The  people  did  not  want  me.  They  meant  to  be 
good  to  me,  and  they  liked  me,  but — they  hurt 
me  without  knowing  it,  and  it  would  have  been 
better  if  I  had  stayed  here.  You  don't  make  me 
feel  ashamed,  and  sad,  and  bitter.  You  love  me 
just  as  I  am,  and  you  would  love  me  if  I  knew 
even  less,  and  was  more  simple.  Let  me  stay 
with  you  !  Let  us  stay  together  always — always 
• — always  !  " 

He  let  her  cry  her  fill,  holding  her  pretty 
head  tenderly  and  soothing  her  as  best  he  could. 
Somehow  he  looked  a  little  brighter  himself,  and 
not  quite  so  pale  as  he  had  done  w^hen  she  found 
him  sitting  alone  trying  to  do  the  new  house 
"  jestice." 

When  at  length  they  went  in  to  supper  it  was 


120  LOUISIANA. 

almost  dusk,  and  he  had  his  arm  still  around  her. 
He  did  not  let  her  go  until  they  sat  down  at  the 
table,  and  then  she  brought  her  chair  quite  close 
to  his,  and  while  he  ate  looked  at  him  often  with 
her  soft,  wet  eyes. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

CONFESSIONS. 

THEY  had  a  long,  quiet  evening  together  after 
ward.  They  sat  before  the  fire,  and  Louisiana 
drew  her  low  seat  near  him  so  that  she  could  rest 
her  head  upon  his  knee. 

"  It's  almost  like  old  times,"  she  said.  "  Let 
us  pretend  I  never  went  away  and  that  everything 
is  as  it  used  to  be." 

''Would  ye  like  it  to  be  thataway,  Louisianny  ?  " 
he  asked. 

She  was  going  to  say  "  Yes,"  but  she  remem 
bered  the  changes  he  had  made  to  please  her,  and 
she  turned  her  face  and  kissed  the  hand  her  cheek 
rested  against. 

"  You  mustn't  fancy  I  don't  think  the  new  house 
is  beautiful,"  she  said.  "  It  isn^t  that  I  mean. 
What  I  would  like  to  bring  back  is — is  the  feeling 
I  used  to  have.  That  is  all — nothing  but  the  old 
feeling.  And  people  can't  always  have  the  same 


122  LOUISIANA. 

feelings,  can  they  ?  Things  change  so  as  we  get 
older." 

He  looked  at  the  crackling  fire  very  hard  for  a 
minute. 

"That's  so,"  he  said.  "  Thet's  so.  Things 
changes  in  gin'ral,  an'  feelin's,  now,  they're  cur'us. 
Thar's  things  as  kin  be  altered  an'  things  as  cayn't 
— an'  feelin's  they  cayn't.  They're  cur'us.  Ef 
ye  hurt  'em,  now,  thar's  money  ;  it  aint  nowhar 
— it  don't  do  no  good.  Thar  aint  nothin'  ye  kin 
buy  as  '11  set  'em  straight.  Ef — fer  instants- 
money  could  buy  back  them  feelin's  of  yourn — 
them  as  ye'd  like  to  hev  back — how  ready  an' 
\villin'  I'd  be  to  trade  fer'  em  !  Lord  !  how  ready 
an'  willin'  !  But  it  wont  do  it.  Thar's  whar  it  is. 
When  they're  gone  a  body  hez  to  larn  to  git  along 
without  'em." 

And  they  sat  silent  again  for  some  time,  listen 
ing  to  the  snapping  of  the  dry  wood  burning  in 
the  great  fire-place. 

When  they  spoke  next  it  was  of  a  different  sub 
ject. 

"  Ef  ye  aint  a-goin'  to  Europe—  "  the  old  man 
began. 

"  And  I'm  not,  father,"  Louisiana  put  in. 

"  Ef  ye  aint,  we  must  set  to  work  fixin'  up  right 
away.  This  mornin'  I  was  a-layin'  out  to  myself 


CONFESSIONS.  1 2  3 

to  let  it  stay  tell  ye  come  back  an'  then  hev  it  all 
ready  fer  ye — cheers  an'  tables — an'  sophias — an' 
merrors — an" — ile  paintin's.  I  laid  out  to  do  it 
slow,  Louisi'anny,  and  take  time,  an'  steddy  a 
heap,  an'  to  take  advice  from  them  es  knows, 
afore  I  traded  ary  time.  I  'lowed  it'd  be  a  heap 
better  to  take  advice  from  them  es  knowed. 
Brown,  es  owns  the  Springs,  I  'lowed  to  hev  asked 
him,  now, — he's  used  to .  furnishin'  up  an'  knows 
whar  to  trade  an'  what  to  trade  fer.  The  paint 
in's,  now — I've  heern  it  takes  a  heap  o'  experi 
ence  to  pick  'em,  an'  I  aint  hed  no  experience.  I 
'low  I  shouldn't  know  a  good  un  when  I  seen  it. 
Now,  them  picters  as  was  in  the  parlor — ye  know 
more  than  I  do,  I  dessay, — now,  them  picters,"  he 
said,  a  little  uncertainly,  "  was  they  to  say  good, 
or — or  only  about  middlin'  ?  " 

She  hesitated  a  second. 

"  Mother  was  fond  of  them,"  she  broke  out,  in 
a  burst  of  simple  feeling. 

Remembering  how  she  had  stood  before  the 
simpering,  red-cheeked  faces  and  hated  them ; 
how  she  had  burned  with  shame  before  them,  she 
was  stricken  with  a  bitter  pang  of  remorse. 

"  Mother  was  fond  of  them,"  she  said. 

"  Thet's  so,"  he  answered,  simply.  "That's 
so,  she  was  ;  an'  you  a-bein'  so  soft-hearted  an' 


124  LOUISIANA. 

tender  makes  it  sorter  go  agin  ye  to  give  in  as 
they  wasn't — what  she  took  'em  fer.  But  ye  see, 
thet — though  it's  nat'ral — it's  nat'ral — don't  make 
'em  good  or  bad,  Louisianny,  an'  Lord  !  it  don't 
harm  her.  'Taint  what  folks  knows  or  what  they 
don't  know  thet  makes  the  good  in  'em.  lanthy 
she  warn't  to  say  'complished,  but  I  don't  see  how 
she  could  hev  ben  no  better  than  she  was — nor 
more  calculated  to  wear  well — in  the  p'int  o'  reli 
gion.  Not  hevin'  experience  in  ile  paintin's  aint 
what'd  hurt  her,  nor  make  us  think  no  less  of  her. 
It  wouldn't  hev  hurt  her  when  she  was  livin9,  an' 
Lord  !  she's  past  it  now — she's  past  it,  lanthy  is." 

He  talked  a  good  deal  about  his  plans  and  of 
the  things  he  meant  to  buy.  He  was  quite  eager 
in  his  questioning  of  her  and  showed  such  lavish- 
ness  as  went  to  her  heart. 

"  I  want  to  leave  ye  well  fixed,"  he  said. 

"  Leave  me  ?  "  she  echoed. 

He  made  a  hurried  effort  to  soften  the  words. 

"  I'd  oughtn't  to  said  it,"  he  said.  "  It  was 
kinder  keerless.  Thet  thar— it's  a  long  way  off 
— mebbe — an'  I'd  oughtn't  to  hev  said  it.  It's  a 
way  old  folks  hev — but  it's  a  bad  way.  Things 
git  to  seem  sorter  near  to  'em — an'  ordinary." 

The  whole  day  had  been  to  Louisiana  a  slow 
approach  to  a  climax.  Sometimes  when  her  father 


CONFESSIONS.  12$ 

talked  she  could  scarcely  bear  to  look  at  his  face 
as  the  firelight  shone  on  it. 

So,  when  she  had  bidden  him  good-night  at 
last  and  walked  to  the  door  leaving  him  standing 
upon  the  hearth  watching  her  as  she  moved  away, 
she  turned  round  suddenly  and  faced  him  again, 
with  her  hand  upon  the  latch. 

"  Father,"  she    cried,  "I  want    to  tell    you — I 

want  to  tell  you 

"  What  ?  "  he  said.      "  What,  Louisianny  ?  " 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  side  and  leaned  against 
the  door — a  slender,  piteous  figure. 

"  Don't  look  at  me  kindly,"  she  said.      "  I  don't 
deserve    it.      I    deserve    nothing.       I    have    been 
ashamed- 
He  stopped  her,  putting  up  his  shaking  hand  and 
turning  pale. 

"  Don't   say  nothin'  as  ye'll  be  sorry  fer  when 

ye  feel  better,  Louisianny,"  he  said.      "  Don't  git 

carried  away  byyer  feelin's  into  sayin'  nothin'  es  is 

hard  on  yerself.    Don't  ye  do  it,  Louisianny.    Thar 

aint  no  need  fer  it,  honey.     Yer  kinder  wrought 

up,  now,  an'  ye  cay  n't  do  yerself  jestice." 

But  she  would  not  be  restrained. 

"  I  must  tell  you,"  she  said.      "  It  has  been  on 

my  heart  too  long.      I  ought  never  to  have  gone 

away.     Everybody  was    different    from    us — and 


126  LOUISIANA. 

had  new  ways.  I  think  they  laughed  at  me,  and 
it  made  me  bad.  I  began  to  ponder  over  things 
until  at  last  I  hated  myself  and  everything,  and 
was  ashamed  that  I  had  been  content.  When  I 
told  you  I  wanted  to  play  a  joke  on  the  people 
who  came  here,  it  was  not  true.  I  wanted  them 
to  go  away  without  knowing  that  this  was  my 
home.  It  was  only  a  queer  place,  to  be  laughed 
at,  to  them,  and  I  was  ashamed  of  it,  and  bitter 
and  angry.  When  they  went  into  the  parlor  they 
laughed  at  it  and  at  the  pictures,  and  everything  in 
it,  and  I  stood  by  with  my  cheeks  burning.  When 
I  saw  a  strange  woman  in  the  kitchen  it  flashed 
into  my  mind  that  I  had  no  need  to  tell  them 
that  all  these  things  that  they  laughed  at  had  been 
round  me  all  my  life.  They  were  not  sneering  at 
them — it  was  worse  than  that — they  were  only  in 
terested  and  amused  and  curious,  and  were  not 
afraid  to  let  me  see.  The — gentleman  had  been 
led  by  his  sister  to  think  I  came  from  some  city. 
He  thought  I  was — was  prettty  and  educated, — 
his  equal,  and  I  knew  how  amazed  he  would  be 
and  how  he  would  say  he  could  not  believe. that 
I  had  lived  here,  and  wonder  at  me  and  talk  me 
over.  And  I  could  not  bear  it.  I  only  wanted 
him  to  go  away  without  knowing,  and  never, 
never  see  me  again  !  " 


CONFESSIONS.  127 

/ 

Remembering  the  pain  and  fever  and  humilia 
tion  of  the  past,  and  of  that  dreadful  day  above 
all,  she  burst  into  sobbing. 

"  You  did  not  think  I  was  that  bad,  did  you  ?  '' 
she  said.  "  But  I  was  !  I  was  !  " 

"  Louisianny,"  he  said,  huskily,  "  come  yere. 
Thar  aint  no  need  fer  ye  to  blame  yerself  thataway. 
Yer  kinder  wrought  up." 

"Don't  be  kind  tome!"  she  said.  "Don't! 
I  want  to  tell  you  all — every  word  !  I  was  so  bad 
and  proud  and  angry  that  I  meant  to  carry  it  out 
to  the  end,  and  tried  to — only  I  was  not  quite  bad 
enough  for  one  thing,  father — I  was  not  bad  enough 
to  be  ashamed  of  yon,  or  to  bear  to  sit  by  and  see 
them  cast  a  slight  upon  you.  They  didn't  mean  it 
for  a  slight — it  was  only  their  clever  way  of  look 
ing  at  things — but  /  loved  you.  You  were  all  I  had 
left,  and  I  knew  you  were  better  than  they  were 
a  thousand  times  !  Did  they  think  I  would  give 
your  warm,  good  heart — your  kind,  faithful  heart 
— for  all  they  had  learned,  or  for  all  they  could 
ever  learn  ?  It  killed  me  to  see  and  hear  them  ! 
And  it  seemed  as  if  I  was  on  fire.  And  I  told  them 
the  truth — that  you  were  my  father  and  that  I  loved 
you  and  was  proud  of  you — that  I  might  be  ashamed 
of  myself  and  all  the  rest,  but  not  of  you — never  of 
you — for  I  wasn't  worthy  to  kiss  your  feet !  " 


128  LOUISIANA. 

For  one  moment  her  father  watched  her,  his  lips 
parted  and  trembling.  It  seemed  as  if  he  meant 
to  try  to  speak,  but  could  not.  Then  his  eyes 
fell  with  an  humble,  bewildered,  questioning  glance 
upon  his  feet,  encased  in  their  large,  substantial 
brogans— the  feet  she  had  said  she  was  not  worthy 
to  kiss.  What  he  saw  in  them  to  touch  him  so 
it  would  be  hard  to  tell — for  he  broke  down  ut 
terly,  put  out  his  hand,  groping  to  feel  for  his 
chair,  fell  into  it  with  head  bowed  on  his  arm,  and 
burst  into  sobbing  too. 

She  left  her  self-imposed  exile  in  an  instant, 
ran  to  him,  and  knelt  down  to  lean  against  him. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  cried,  u  have  I  broken  your  heart? 
Have  I  broken  your  heart  ?  Will  God  ever  for 
give  me  ?  I  don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  father, 
for  I  don't  deserve  it." 

At  first  he  could  not  speak,  but  he  put  his  arm 
round  her  and  drew  her  head  up  to  his  breast — 
and,  with  all  the  love  and  tenderness  he  had  lav 
ished  upon  her  all  her  life,  she  had  never  known 
such  love  and  tenderness  as  he  expressed  in  this 
one  movement. 

"  Louisianny,"  he  said,  brokenly,  when  he  had 
found  his  voice,  "  it's  you  as  should  be  a-forgivin' 
me." 

"  I  !  "  she  exclaimed. 


CONFESSIONS.  1 29 

He  held  her  in  his  trembling  arm  so  close  that 
she  felt  his  heart  quivering. 

"  To  .think,"  he  almost  whispered,  "  as  I  should 
not  hev  ben  doin'  ye  jestice  !  To  think  as  I  didn't 
know  ye  well  enough  to  do  ye  jestice  !  To  think 
yer  own  father,  thet's  knowed  ye  all  yer  life,  could 
hev  give  in  to  its  bein'  likely  as  ye  wasn't — what 
he'd  allers  thought,  an'  what  yer  mother  'd 
thought,  an'  what  ye  was,  honey." 

"  I  don't "  she  began  falter ingly. 

"It's  me  as  oughter  be  a-standin'  agin  the 
door,"  he  said.  "It's  me!  I  knowed  every 
word  of  the  first  part  of  what  ye've  told  me, 
Louisianny.  I've  been  so  sot  on  ye  thet  I've  got 
into  a  kinder  noticin'  way  with  ye,  an'  I  guessed 
it  out.  I  seen  it  in  yer  face  when  ye  stood  thar 
tryin'  to  laugh  on  the  porch  while  them  people 
was  a-waitin'.  'Twa'n't  no  nat'ral  gal's  laugh  ye 
laughed,  and  when  ye  thought  I  wasn't  a-noticin' 
I  was  a-noticin'  an'  a-thinkin'  all  the  time.  But  I 
seen  more  than  was  thar,  honey,  an'  I  didn't  do 
ye  jestice — an'  I've  ben  punished  fer  it.  It  come 
agin  me  like  a  slungshot.  I  ses  to  myself,  '  She's 
ashamed  o'  me  !  It's  me  she's  ashamed  of — an' 
she  wants  to  pass  me  off  fer  a  stranger  !  '  ! 

The  girl  drew  off  from  him  a  little  and  looked 
up  into  his  face  wonderingly. 


13°  LOUISIANA. 

"You  thought  that!"  she  said.  "And  never 
told  me — and  humored  me,  and 

"I'd  oughter  knovved  ye  better,"  he  said; 
"  but  I've  suffered  fer  it,  Louisianny.  I  ses  to 
myself,  '  All  the  years  thet  we've  ben  sot  on  each 
other  an'  nussed  each  other  through  our  little 
sick  spells,  an'  keered  fer  each  other,  lies  gone  fer 
nothin'.  She  wants  to  pass  me  off  fer  a  stranger.' 
Not  that  I  blamed  ye,  honey.  Lord  !  I  knowed 
the  difference  betwixt  us  !  7'd  knowed  it  long 
afore  you  did.  But  somehow  it  warn't  eggsakly 
what  I  looked  fer  an'  it  was  kinder  hard  on  me 
right  at  the  start.  An'  then  the  folks  went  away 
an'  ye  didn't  go  with  'em,  an'  thar  was  somethin' 
workin'  on  ye  as  I  knowed  ye  wasn't  ready  to  tell 
me  about.  An1  I  sot  an'  steddied  it  over  an' 
watched  ye,  an'  I  prayed  some,  an'  I  laid  wake 
nights  a-steddyin'.  An'  I  made  up  my  mind  thet 
es  I'd  ben  the  cause  o'  trouble  to  ye  I'd  oughter 
try  an'  sorter  balance  the  thing.  I  allers  'lowed 
parents  lied  a  duty  to  their  child'en.  An'  I  ses, 
'  Thar's  some  things  thet  kin  be  altered  an'  some 
thet  cayn't.  Let's  alter  them  es  kin  !  ' ' 

She  remembered  the  words  well,  and  now  she 
saw  clearly  the  dreadful  pain  they  had  expressed  ; 
they  cut  her  to  her  soul. 

"  Oh  !  father,"  she  cried.     "  How  could  you  ?  " 


CONFESSIONS.  13 1 

"  I'd  oughter  knowed  ye  better,  Louisianny," 
he  repeated.  "But  I  didn't.  I  ses,  'What 
money  an'  steddyin'  an'  watchin'll  do  fer  her  to 
make  up,  shell  be  done.  I'll  try  to  make  up 
fer  the  wrong  I've  did  her  onwillin'ly — onwill- 
in'ly.'  An'  I  went  to  the  Springs  an'  I  watched 
an'  steddied  thar,  an'  I  come  home  an'  I  watched 
an'  steddied  thar — an'  I  hed  the  house  fixed,  an' 
I  laid  out  to  let  ye  go  to  Europe — though  what 
I'd  heern  o'  the  habits  o'  the  people,  an'  the  bri 
gands  an'  sich,  went  powerful  agin  me  makin'  up 
my  mind  easy.  An'  I  never  lost  sight  nary  min- 
nit  o'  what  I'd  laid  out  fer  to  do — but  I  wasn't 
doin'  ye  jestice  an'  didn't  suffer  no  more  than  I'd 
oughter.  An'  when  ye  stood  up  thar  agen  the 
door,  honey,  with  yer  tears  a-streamin'  an'  yer 
eyes  a-shinin',  an'  told  me  what  ye'd  felt  an'  what 
ye'd  said  about — wa'l,"  (delicately)  "about  thct 
thar  as  ye  thought  ye  wasn't  worthy  to  do,  it  set 
my  blood  a-tremblin'  in  my  veins — an'  my  heart 
a-shakin'  in  my  side,  an'  me  a-goin'  all  over — an' 
I  was  struck  all  of  a  heap,  an'  knowed  thet  the 
Lord  hed  ben  better  to  me  than  I  thought,  an' — 
an'  even  when  I  was  fondest  on  ye,  an'  proudest 
on  ye,  I  hadn't  done  ye  no  sort  o'  jestice  in  the 
world — an'  never  could  !  " 

There  was  no  danger  of  their  misunderstanding 


132  LOUISIANA. 

each  other  again.  When  they  were  calmer  they 
talked  their  trouble  over  simply  and  confidingly, 
holding  nothing  back. 

"  When  ye  told  me,  Louisianny,"  said  her  father, 
"that  ye  wanted  nothin'  but  me,  it  kinder  went 
agin  me  more  than  all  the  rest,  fer  I  thinks,  ses  I 
to  myself,  '  It  aint  true,  an'  she  must  be  a-gettin' 
sorter  hardened  to  it,  or  she'd  never  said  it.  It 
seemed  like  it  was  kinder  onnccessary.  Lord  ! 
the  onjestice  I  was  a-doin'  ye  !  " 

They  bade  each  other  good-night  again,  at  last. 

"  Fer  ye're  a-lookin'  pale,"  he  said.  "An"  I've 
been  kinder  out  o'  sorts  myself  these  last  two  or 
three  ^vceks.  My  dyspepsy's  bin  back  on  me  agin 
an'  thct  thar  pain  in  my  side's  bin  a-workin'  on 
me.  We  must  take  keer  o'  ourselves,  bein'  es 
thar's  on'y  us  two,  an'  we're  so  sot  on  each  other." 

He  went  to  the  door  with  her  and  said  his  last 
words  to  her  there. 

"  I'm  glad  it  come  to-night,"  he  said,  in  a  grate 
ful  tone.  "  Lord  !  how  glad  I  am  it  come  to-night ! 
S'posin'  somethin'  hed  happened  to  ary  one  of  us 
an'  the  other  hed  ben  left  not  a-knowin'  how  it  was. 
I'm  glad  it  didn't  last  no  longer,  Louisianny." 

And  so  they  parted  for  the  night. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

"  lANTHYl " 

IT  was  later  than  usual  when  Louisiana  awak 
ened  in  the  morning.  She  awakened  suddenly 
and  found  herself  listening  to  the  singing  of  a  bird 
on  the  tree  near  her  window.  Its  singing  was  so 
loud  and  shrill  that  it  overpowered  her  and  aroused 
her  to  a  consciousness  of  fatigue  and  exhaustion. 

It  seemed  to  her  at  first  that  no  one  was  stir 
ring  in  the  house  below,  but  after  a  few  minutes 
she  heard  some  one  talking  in  her  father's  room 
— talking  rapidly  in  monotonous  tone. 

"  I  wonder  who  it  is,"  she  said,  and  lay  back 
upon  her  pillow,  feeling  tired  out  and  bewildered 
between  the  bird's  shrill  song  and  the  strange 
voice. 

And  then  she  heard  heavy  feet  on  the  stairs  and 
listened  to  them  nervously  until  they  reached  her 
door  and  the  door  was  pushed  open  unceremoni 
ously. 


134  LOUISIANA. 

The  negro  woman  Nancy  thrust  her  head  into 
the  room. 

"  Miss  Louisianny,  honey,"  she  said.  "  Ye  aint 
up  yet  ?  " 

11  No." 

"  Ye'd  better  £7^  up,  honey — an'  come  down 
stairs." 

But  the  girl  made  no  movement. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked,  listlessly. 

"  Yer  pappy,  honey— he's  sorter  cur'us.  He 
don't  seem  to  be  right  well.  He  didn't  seem  to 
be  quite  at  hisself  when  I  went  to  light  his  fire. 
He- 
Louisiana  sat  upright  in  bed,  her  great  coil  of 
black  hair  tumbling  over  one  shoulder  and  making 
her  look  even  paler  than  she  was. 

"  Father  !  "  she  said.  "  He  was  quite  well  late 
last  night.  It  was  after  midnight  when  we  went  to 
bed,  and  he  was  well  then." 

The  woman  began  to  fumble  uneasily  at  the 
latch. 

"Don't  ye  git  skeered,  chile,"  she  said. 
"  Mebbe  'taint  nothin' — but  seemed  to  me  like- 
like  he  didn't  know  me." 

Louisiana  was  out  of  bed,  standing  upon  the 
floor  and  dressing  hurriedly. 

"  He  was  well  last  night,"  she  said,  piteously. 


"lANTHYJ"  135 

"  Only  a  few  hours  ago.     He  was  well  and  talked 
to  me  and " 

She  stopped  suddenly  to  listen  to  the  voice 
down-stairs — a  new  and  terrible  thought  flashing 
upon  her. 

"Who  is  with  him?"  she  asked.  "Who  is 
talking  to  him  ?  " 

"  Thar  aint  no  one  with  him,"  was  the  answer. 
"He's  by  hisself,  honey." 

Louisiana  was  buttoning  her  wrapper  at  the 
throat.  Such  a  tremor  fell  upon  her  that  she 
could  not  finish  what  she  was  doing.  She  left  the 
button  unfastened  and  pushed  past  Nancy  and  ran 
swiftly  down  the  stairs,  the  woman  following  her. 

The  door  of  her  father's  room  stood  open  and 
the  fire  Nancy  had  lighted  burned  and  crackled 
merrily.  Mr.  Rogers  was  lying  high  upon  his 
pillow,  watching  the  blaze.  His  face  was  flushed 
and  he  had  one  hand  upon  his  chest.  He  turned 
his  eyes  slowly  upon  Louisiana  as  she  entered  and 
for  a  second  or  so  regarded  her  wonderingly. 
Then  a  change  came  upon  him,  his  face  lighted 
up — it  seemed  as  if  he  saw  all  at  once  who  had 
come  to  him. 

"  lanthy  !  "  he  said.  "I  didn't  sca'cely  know 
ye !  Ye've  bin  gone  so  long !  Whar  hev  ye 
bin?" 


136  LOUISIANA. 

But  even  then  she  could  not  realize  the  truth. 
It  was  so  short  a  time  since  he  had  bidden  hef 
good-night  and  kissed  her  at  the  door. 

"Father!"  she  cried.  "It  is  Louisiana! 
Father,  look  at  me  !  " 

But  he  was  looking  at  her,  and  yet  he  only 
smiled  again. 

"It's  bin  such  a  long  time,  lanthy,"  he  said. 
"  Sometimes  I've  thought  ye  wouldn't  never  come 
back  at  all." 

And  when  she  fell  upon  her  knees  at  the  bed 
side,  with  a  desolate  cry  of  terror  and  anguish, 
he  did  not  seem  to  hear  it  at  all,  but  lay  fondling 
her  bent  head  and  smiling  still,  and  saying  hap 
pily  : 

"  Lord  !  I  am  glad  to  see  ye  !  " 

When  the  doctor  came — he  was  a  mountaineer 
like  the  rest  of  them,  a  rough  good-natured  fellow 
who  had  "read  a  course"  with  somebody  and 
" 'tended  lectures  in  Cincinnatty  " — he  could  tell 
her  easily  enough  what  the  trouble  was. 

"  Pneumony,"  he  said.  "And  pretty  bad  at 
that.  He  haint  hed  no  health  fer  a  right  smart 
while.  He  haint  never  got  over  thet  spell  he  hed 
last  winter.  This  yere  change  in  the  weather's 
what's  done  it.  He  was  a-complainin'  to  me  the 


"IANTHY!"  137 

other  day  about  thet  thar  old  pain  in  his  chist. 
Things  lies  bin  kinder  'cumylatin'  on  him." 

"  He  does  not  know  me!"  said  Louisiana. 
"  He  is  very  ill — he  is  very  ill !  " 

Doctor  Hankins  looked  at  his  patient  for  a  mo 
ment,  dubiously. 

"  Wa-al,  thet's  so,"  he  said,  at  length.  "  He's 
purty  bad  off — purty  bad  !  " 

By  night  the  house  was  full  of  visitors  and  vol 
unteer  nurses.  The  fact  that  "  Uncle  Elbert  Ro 
gers  was  down  with  pneumony,  an'  Louisianny 
thar  without  a  soul  anigh  her "  was  enough  to 
rouse  sympathy  and  curiosity.  Aunt  'Mandy, 
Aunt  Ca'line  and  Aunt  'Nervy  came  up  one  after 
the  other. 

"  Louisianny  now,  she  aint  nothin'  but  a  young 
thing,  an'  don't  know  nothin',"  they  said.  "An" 
Elbert  bein'  sich  nigh  kin,  it'd  look  powerful  bad 
if  we  didn't  go." 

They  came  in  wagons  or  ricketty  buggies  and 
brought  their  favorite  medicines  and  liniments 
with  them  in  slab-sided,  enamel-cloth  valises. 
They  took  the  patient  under  their  charge,  applied 
their  nostrums  and  when  they  were  not  busy 
seemed  to  enjoy  talking  his  symptoms  over  in  low 
tones.  They  were  very  good  to  Louisiana,  reliev 
ing  her  of  every  responsibility  in  spite  of  herself, 


133  LOUISIANA. 

and  shaking  their  heads  at  each  other  pityingly 
when  her  back  was  turned. 

"She  never  give  him  no  trouble,"  they  said. 
"  She's  got  thet  to  hold  to.  An'  they  was  pow 
erful  sot  on  her,  both  him  an'  lanthy.  I've  heern 
'em  say  she  allus  was  kinder  tender  an'  easy  to 
manage." 

Their  husbands  came  to  "  sit  up  "  with  them  at 
night,  and  sat  by  the  fire  talking  about  their  crops 
and  the  elections,  and  expectorating  with  regular 
ity  into  the  ashes.  They  tried  to  persuade  Louisi 
ana  to  go  to  bed,  but  she  would  not  go. 

"  Let  me  sit  by  him,  if  there  is  nothing  else  I 
can  do,"  she  said.  "  If  he  should  come  to  him 
self  for  a  minute  he  would  know  me  if  I  was  near 
him." 

In  his  delirium  he  seemed  to  have  gone  back  to 
a  time  before  her  existence — the  time  when  he 
was  a  young  man  and  there  was  no  one  in  the 
new  house  he  had  built,  but  himself  and  "  lanthy." 
Sometimes  he  fancied  himself  sitting  by  the  fire 
on  a  winter's  night  and  congratulating  himself 
upon  being  there. 

"  Jest  to  think,"  he  would  say  in  a  quiet,  spec 
ulative  voice,  "  that  two  year  ago  I  didn't  know 
ye — an'  thar  ye  air,  a-sittin'  sewin',  and  the  fire 
a-cracklin',  an'  the  house  all  fixed.  This  yere's 


"IANTHY!"  139 

what  I  call  solid  comfort,  lanthy— jest  solid  com 
fort !" 

Once  he  wakened  suddenly  from  a  sleep  and 
finding  Louisiana  bending  over  him,  drew  her 
face  down  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  didn't  know  ye  was  so  nigh,  lanthy,"  he 
whispered.  "  Lord  !  jest  to  think  yer  allers  nigh 
an'  thar  cayn't  nothin'  separate  us." 

The  desolateness  of  so  living  a  life  outside  his, 
was  so  terrible  to  the  poor  child  who  loved  him, 
that  at  times  she  could  not  bear  to  remain  in  the 
room,  but  would  go  out  into  the  yard  and  ramble 
about  aimless  and  heart-broken,  looking  back 
now  and  then  at  the  new,  strange  house,  with  a 
wild  pang. 

"  There  will  be  nothing  left  if  he  leaves  me," 
she  said.  "  There  will  be  nothing." 

And  then  she  would  hurry  back,  panting,  and 
sit  by  him  again,  her  eyes  fastened  upon  his  un 
conscious  face,  watching  its  every  shade  of  ex 
pression  and  change. 

"  She'll  take  it  mighty  hard,"  she  heard  Aunt 
Ca'line  whisper  one  day,  "  ef " 

And  she  put  her  hands  to  her  ears  and  buried 
her  face  in  the  pillow,  that  she  might  not  hear 
the  rest. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
"DON'T  DO  NO  ONE  A  ONJESTICE." 

HE  was  not  ill  very  long.  Toward  the  end  of 
the  second  week  the  house  was  always  full  of 
visitors  who  came  to  sympathize  and  inquire  and 
prescribe,  and  who,  in  many  cases,  came  from 
their  farms  miles  away  attracted  by  the  news 
that  "  Uncle  Elbert  Rogers"  was  "  mighty  bad 
off."  They  came  on  horseback  and  in  wagons  or 
buggies — men  in  homespun,  and  women  in  sun- 
bonnets — and  they  hitched  their  horses  at  the 
fence  and  came  into  the  house  with  an  awkwardly- 
subdued  air,  and  stood  in  silence  by  the  sick  bed 
for  a  few  minntes,  and  then  rambled  towards  the 
hearth  and  talked  in  spectral  whispers. 

"The  old  man's  purty  low,"  they  always  said, 
''he's  purty  low."  And  then  they  added  among 
themselves  that  he  had  "  allers  bin  mighty  clever, 
an'  a  good  neighbor." 

When    she  heard    them    speak  of  him  in  this 


"DON'T  DO  NO  ONE  A   ONJESTICE."      141 

manner,  Louisiana  knew  what  it  meant.  She 
never  left  the  room  again  after  the  first  day  that 
they  spoke  so,  and  came  in  bodies  to  look  at  him, 
and  turn  away  and  say  that  he  had  been  good 
to  them.  The  men  never  spoke  to  her  after  their 
first  nod  of  greeting,  and  the  women  but  rarely, 
but  they  often  glanced  hurriedly  askance  at  her  as 
she  sat  or  stood  by  the  sick  man's  pillow.  Some 
how  none  of  them  had  felt  as  if  they  were  on  very 
familiar  terms  with  her,  though  they  all  spoke  in 
a  friendly  way  of  her  as  being  "  a  mighty  purty, 
still,  kind  o'  a  harmless  young  critter."  They 
thought,  when  they  saw  her  pallor  and  the  anguish 
in  her  eyes,  that  she  was  "  takin'  it  powerful 
hard,  an'  no  wonder,"  but  they  knew  nothing  of 
her  desperate  loneliness  and  terror. 

"  Uncle  Elbert  he'll  leiive  a  plenty,"  they  said 
in  undertones.  "  She'll  be  well  pervided  fer, 
will  Louisianny." 

And  they  watched  over  their  charge  and  nursed 
him  faithfully,  feeling  not  a  little  sad  themselves 
as  they  remembered  his  simple  good  nature  and 
neighborliness  and  the  kindly  prayers  for  which 
he  had  been  noted  in  "  meetin'." 

On  the  last  clay  of  the  second  week  the  doctor 
held  a  consultation  with  Aunt  'Nervy  and  Aunt 
Ca'line  on  the  front  porch  before  he  went  away, 


142  LOUISIANA. 

and  when  they  re-entered  the  room  they  spoke  in 
whispers  even  lower  than  before  and  moved  about 
stealthily.  The  doctor  himself  rode  away  slowly 
and  stopped  at  a  house  or  so  011^  the  wayside, 
where  he  had  no  patients,  to  tell  the  inhabitants 
what  he  had  told  the  head  nurses. 

"  We  couldn't  hev  expected  him  to  stay  allers," 
he  said,  "  but  we'll  miss  him  mightily.  He  haint 
a  enemy  in  the  county — nary  one  !  " 

That  afternoon  when  the  sun  was  setting,  the 
sick  man  wakened  from  a  long,  deep  sleep.  The 
first  thing  he  saw  was  the  bright  pale-yellow  of  a 
tree  out  in  the  yard,  which  had  changed  color 
since  he  had  seen  it  last.  It  was  a  golden  tree 
now  as  it  stood  in  the  sun,  its  leaves  rustling  in  a 
faint,  chill  wind.  The  next  thing,  he  knew  that 
there  were  people  in  the  room  who  sat  silent  and 
all  looked  at  him  with  kindly,  even  reverent,  eyes. 
Then  he  turned  a  little  and  saw  his  child,  who 
bent  towards  him  with  dilated  eyes  and  trembling, 
parted  lips.  A  strange,  vague  memory  of  weary 
pain  and  dragging,  uncertain  days  and  nights 
came  to  him  and  he  knew,  and  yet  felt  no  fear. 

(<  Louisianny  !  "  he  said. 

He  could  only  speak  in  a  whisper  and  tremu 
lously.  Those  who  sat  about  him  hushed  their 
very  breath. 


"DON'T  DO  NO  ONE  A   ONJESTICE."      143 

"  Lay  yer  head — on  the  piller — nigh  me,"  he 
said. 

She  laid  it  down  and  put  her  hand  in  his.  The 
great  tears  were  streaming  down  her  face,  but  she 
said  not  a  word. 

"  I  haint  got  long — honey,"  he  faltered.  "  The 
Lord — He'll  keer — fer  ye." 

Then  for  a  few  minutes  he  lay  breathing  faintly, 
but  with  his  eyes  open  and  smiling  as  they  rested 
on  the  golden  foliage  of  the  tree. 

''Plow  yaller — it  is!"  he  whispered.  "Like 
gold.  lanthy  was  powerful— sot  on  it.  It — 
kinder  beckons." 

It  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  move  his  eyes  from 
it,  and  the  pause  that  followed  was  so  long  that 
Louisiana  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  she  lifted 
her  head  and  kissed  him. 

"  Father  !  "  she  cried.  "  Say  something  to 
me  !  Say  something  to  me  !  '" 

It  drew  him  back  and  he  looked  up  into  her 
eyes  as  she  bent  over  him. 

"  Ye'll  be  happy—"  he  said,  "afore  long.  I 
kinder  — know.  Lord!  how  I've — loved  ye, 
honey — an'  ye've  desarved  it — all.  Don't  ye— do 
no  one — a  onjestice." 

And  then  as  she  dropped  her  white  face  upon 
the  pillow  again  he  saw  her  no  longer — nor  the 


H4  LOUISIANA. 

people,  nor  the  room,  but  lay  quite  still  with 
parted  lips  and  eyes  wide  open,  smiling  still  at 
the  golden  tree  waving  and  beckoning  in  the 
wind. 

This  he  saw  last  of  all,  and  seemed  still  to  see 
even  when  some  one  came  silently,  though  with 
tears,  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

A   LEAF. 

THERE  was  a  sunny  old  grave-yard  half  a  mile 
from  the  town,  where  the  people  of  Bowersville 
laid  their  dead  under  the  long  grass  and  tangle 
of  wild-creeping  vines,  and  the  whole  country-side 
gathered  there  when  they  lowered  the  old  man 
into  his  place  at  his  wife's  side.  His  neighbors 
sang  his  funeral  hymn  and  performed  the  last 
offices  for  him  with  kindly  hands,  and  when  they 
turned  away  and  left  him  there  was  not  a  man  or 
woman  of  them  who  did  not  feel  that  they  had 
lost  a  friend. 

They  were  very  good  to  Louisiana.  Aunt 
'Nervy  and  Aunt  Ca'line  deserted  their  families 
that  they  might  stay  with  her  until  all  was  over, 
doing  their  best  to  give  her  comfort.  It  was  Aunt 
'Nervy  who  first  thought  of  sending  for  the  girl 
cousin  to  whom  the  trunkful  of  clothes  had  been 
given. 

7 


146  LOUISIANA. 

"  Le's  send  for  Leander's  Jenny,  Ca'line,"  she 
said.  "  Mebbe  it'd  help  her  some  to  hev  a  gal 
nigh  her.  Gals  kinder  onderstands  each  other, 
an' Jenny  was  all  us  powerful  fond  o'  Lowizyanny." 

So  Jenny  was  sent  for  and  came.  From  her 
lowly  position  as  one  of  the  fifteen  in  an  "  onfort'- 
nit"  family  she  had  adored  and  looked  up  to 
Louisiana  all  her  life.  All  the  brightest  days  in 
her  experience  had  been  spent  at  Uncle  Elbert's 
with  her  favorite  cousin.  But  there  was  no  bright 
ness  about  the  house  now.  When  she  arrived  and 
was  sent  upstairs  to  the  pretty  new  room  Louisi 
ana  occupied  she  found  the  girl  lying  upon  the 
bed.  She  looked  white  and  slender  in  her  black 
dress;  her  hands  were  folded  palm  to  palm  under 
her  check,  and  her  eyes  were  wide  open. 

Jenny  ran  to  her  and  knelt  at  her  side.  She 
kissed  her  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  sobbed,  "somehow  I  didn't  ever 
think  I  should  come  here  and  not  find  Uncle 
Elbert.  It  don't  seem  right  — it  makes  it  like  a 
strange  place." 

Then  Louisiana  broke  into  sobs,  too. 

"  It  is  a  strange  place  !  "  she  cried — "  a  strange 
place — a  strange  place  !  Oh,  if  one  old  room  was 
left — just  one  that  I  could  go  into  and  not  feel  so 
lonely  !  " 


A  LEAF.  147 

But  she  had  no  sooner  said  it  than  she  checked 
herself. 

11  Oh,  I  oughtn't  to  say  that  !  "  she  cried.  "  I 
wont  say  it.  He  did  it  all  for  me,  and  I  didn't 
deserve  it." 

"Yes,  you  did,"  said  Jenny,  fondling  her. 
"  He  was  always  saying  what  a  good  child  you 
had  been — and  that  you  had  never  given  him  any 
trouble." 

"  That  was  because  he  was  so  good,"  said 
Louisiana.  "No  one  else  in  the  whole  world  was 
so  good.  And  now  he  is  gone,  and  I  can  never 
make  him  know  how  grateful  I  was  and  how  I 
loved  him." 

"  He  did  know,"  said  Jenny. 

"  No,"  returned  Louisiana.  "  It  would  have 
taken  a  long,  long  life  to  make  him  know  all  I 
felt,  and  now  when  I  look  back  it  seems  as  if  we 
had  been  together  such  a  little  while.  Oh  !  I 
thought  the  last  night  we  talked  that  there  was  a 
long  life  before  us — that  I  should  be  old  before  he 
left  me,  and  we  should  have  had  all  those  years 
together." 

After  the  return  from  the  grave -yard  there  was 
a  prolonged  discussion  held  among  the  heads  of 
the  different  branches  of  the  family.  They  gath 
ered  at.  one  end  of  the  back  porch  and  talked  of 


148  LOUISIANA. 

Louisiana,  who  sat  before  the  log  fire  in  her  room 
upstairs. 

"She  aint  in  the  notion  o'  leavin'  the  place," 
said  Aunt  'Nervy.  "  She  cried  powerful  when  I 
mentioned  it  to  her,  an'  wouldn't  hear  to  it.  She 
says  over  an'  over  ag'in  '  Let  me  stay  in  the  home 
he  made  for  me,  Aunt  Ca'line.'  I  reckon  she's  a 
kind  o'  notion  Elbert  'lowed  fur  her  to  be  yere 
when  he  was  gone." 

"  Wa-al  now,"  said  Uncle  Leander,  "I  reckon 
he  did.  He  talked  a  heap  on  it  when  he  was  in  a 
talkin'  way.  He's  said  to  me  '  I  want  things  to 
be  jest  as  she'd  enjoy  'em  most— when  she's 
sorter  lonesome,  es  she  will  be,  mebbe.'  Seemed 
like  he  hed  it  in  his  mind  es  he  warnt  long  fur 
this  world.  Don't  let  us  cross  her  in  nothin'. 
He  never  did.  He  was  powerful  tender  on  her-, 
was  Elbert." 

"  I  seed  Marthy  Lureny  Nance  this  mornin'," 
put  in  Aunt  Ca'line,  "  an'  I  told  her  to  come  up 
an'  kinder  overlook  things.  She  haint  with  no 
one  now,  an'  I  dessay  she'd  like  to  stay  an'  keep 
house." 

"  I  don't  see  nothin'  ag'in  it,"  commented 
Uncle  Steve,  "if  Louisianny  don't.  She's  a  set 
tled  woman,  an's  bin  married,  an'  haint  no  family 
to  pester  her  scnce  Nance  is  dead." 


A  LEAF.  149 

"  She  was  allers  the  through-goin'  kind,"  said 
Aunt  'Nervy.  "Things  '11  be  well  looked  to — 
an'  she  thought  a  4ieap  o'  Elbert.  They  was 
raised  together." 

"S'pos'n  ye  was  to  go  in  an'  speak  to  Louisi- 
anny,"  suggested  Uncle  Steve. 

Louisiana,  being  spoken  to,  was  very  tractable. 
She  was  willing  to  do  anything  asked  of  her  but 
go  away. 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  have  Mrs.  Nance 
here,  Aunt  Minerva."  she  said.  "  She  was 
always  very  kind,  and  father  liked  her.  It  won't 
be  like  having  a  strange  face  near  me.  Please 
tell  her  I  want  her  to  come  and  that  I  hope  she 
will  try  to  feel  as  if  she  was  at  home." 

So  Marthy  Lureny  Nance  came,  and  was  for 
mally  installed  in  her  position.  She  was  a  tall, 
strongly-built  woman,  with  blue  eyes,  black  hair, 
and  thick  black  eyebrows.  She  wore,  when  she 
arrived,  her  best  alpaca  gown  and  a  starched  and 
frilled  blue  sun-bonnet.  When  she  presented  her 
self  to  Louisiana  she  sat  down  before  her,  re 
moved  this  sun-bonnet  with  a  scientific  flap  and 
hung  it  on  the  back  of  her  chair. 

"  Ye  look  mighty  peak-ed,  Louisianny,"  she 
said.  "  Mighty  peak-ed." 


150  LOUISIANA. 

"  I  don't  feel  very  well,"  Louisiana  answered, 
"  but  I  suppose  I  shall  be  better  after  a  while." 

"Ye're  takin'  it  powerful  hard,  Louisianny," 
said  Mrs.  Nance,  "an'  I  don't  blame  ye.  I  aint 
gwine  to  pester  ye  a-talkin'.  I  jest  come  to  say 
I  'lowed  to  do  my  plum  best  by  ye,  an'  ax  ye 
whether  ye  liked  hop  yeast  or  salt  risin'  ?  " 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Louisiana  and  Mrs. 
Nance  were  left  to  themselves.  Aunt  'Nervy 
and  Aunt  Ca'line  and  the  rest  had  returned  to 
their  respective  homes,  even  Jenny  had  gone 
back  to  Bowersviile  where  she  boarded  with  a 
relation  and  went  to  school. 

The  days  after  this  seemed  so  long  to  Louisi 
ana  that  she  often  wondered  how  she  lived 
through  them.  In  the  first  passion  of  her  sorrow 
she  had  not  known  how  they  passed,  but  now 
that  all  was  silence  and  order  in  the  house,  and 
she  was  alone,  she  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
count  the  hours.  There  was  no  work  for  her, 
no  one  came  in  and  out  for  whom  she  might  in 
vent  some  little  labor  of  love  ;  there  was  no  one 
to  watch  for,  no  one  to  think  of.  She  used  to  sit 
for  hours  at  her  window  watching  the  leaves 
change  their  color  day  by  day,  and  at  last  flutter 
down  upon  the  grass  at  the~  least  stir  of  wind. 


A  LEAF.  151 

Once  she  went  out  and  picked  up  one  of  these 
leaves  and  taking  it  back  to  her  room,  shut  it  up 
in  a  book. 

"Everything  has  happened  to  me  since  the 
day  it  was  first  a  leaf,"  she  said.  "  I  have  lived 
just  as  long  as  a  leaf.  That  isn't  long." 

When  the  trees  were  bare,  she  one  day  remem 
bered  the  books  she  had  sent  for  when  at  the 
Springs,  and  she  went  to  the  place  where  she  had 
put  them,  brought  them  out  and  tried  to  feel  in 
terested  in  them  again. 

"  I  might  learn  a  great  deal,"  she  said,  "if  I 
persevered.  I  have  so  much  time." 

But  she  had  not  read  many  pages  before  the 
tears  began  to  roll  down  her  cheeks. 

<4  If  he  had  lived,"  she  said,  "  I  might  have 
read  them  to  him  and  it  would  have  pleased  him 
so.  I  might  have  done  it  often  if  I  had  thought 
less  about  myself.  He  would  have  learned,  too. 
He  thought  he  was  slow,  but  he  would  have 
learned,  too,  in  a  little  while,  and  he  would  have 
been  so  proud." 

She  was  very  like  her  father  in  the  simple  ten 
derness  of  her  nature.  She  grieved  with  the 
hopeless  passion  of  a  child  for  the  unconscious 
wrong  she  had  done. 

It  was  as  she  sat  trying  to  fix  her  mind  upon 


152  -LOUISIANA. 

these  books  that  there  came  to  her  the  first  thought 
of  a  plan  which  was  afterwards  of  some  vague  com 
fort  to  her.  She  had  all  the  things  which  had  fur 
nished  the  old  parlor  taken  into  one  of  the  unused 
rooms — the  chairs  and  tables,  the  carpet,  the  or 
naments  and  pictures.  She  spent  a  day  in  plac 
ing  everything  as  she  remembered  it,  doing  all 
without  letting  any  one  assist  her.  After  it  was 
arranged  she  left  the  room,  and  locked  the  door 
taking  the  key  with  her. 

"  No  one  shall  go  in  but  myself,"  she  said.  "  It 
belongs  to  me  more  than  all  the  rest." 

"  I  never  knowed  her  to  do  nothin'  notionate 
but  thet,"  remarked  Mrs.  Nance,  in  speaking  of 
it  afterwards.  "She's  mighty  still,  an'  sits  an' 
grieves  a  heap,  but  she  aint  never  notionate. 
Thet  was  kinder  notionate  fer  a  gal  to  do.  She 
sets  store  on  'em  'cos  they  was  her  pappy's  an'  her 
ma's,  I  reckon.  It  cayn't  be  nothin'  else,  fur  they 
aint  to  say  stylish,  though  they  was  allers  good 
solid-appearin'  things.  The  picters  was  the  on'y 
things  es  was  showy." 

"  She's  mighty  pale  an'  slender  scnce  her  pappy 
died,"  said  the  listener. 

"Wa-al,  yes,  she's  kinder  peak-ed,"  admitted 
Mrs.  Nance.  "  She's  kinder  peak-ed,  but  she'll 
git  over  it.  Young  folks  allers  does." 


A   LEAF.  153 

But  she  did  not  get  over  it  as  soon  as  Mrs. 
Nance  had  expected,  in  view  of  her  youth.  The 
days  seemed  longer  and  lonelier  to  her  as  the  win 
ter  advanced,  though  they  were  really  so  much 
shorter,  and  she  had  at  last  been  able  to  read  and 
think  of  what  she  read.  When  the  snow  was  on 
the  ground  and  she  could  not  wander  about  the 
place  she  grew  paler  still. 

"  Louisianny,"  said  Mrs.  Nance,  coming  in 
upon  her  one  day  as  she  stood  at  the  window, 
"  ye're  a-beginnin'  to  look  like  ye're  Aunt  Mc- 
lissy." 

"Am  I?"  answered  Louisiana.  "She  died 
when  she  was  young,  didn't  she?  " 

"  She  wasn't  but  nineteen,"  grimly.  "  She  hed 
a  kind  o'  love-scrape,  an'  when  the  feller  married 
Emmcrlinc  Ruggles  she  jest  give  right  in.  They 
hed  a  quarrel,  an'  he  was  a  sperrity  kind  o'  thing 
an'  merried  Emmerline  when  he  was  mad.  He 
cut  off  his  nose  to  spite  his  face,  an'  a  nice  time 
he  hed  of  it  when  it  was  done.  Melissy  was  a 
pretty  gal,  but  kinder  consumpshony,  an'  she 
hedn't  backbone  enough  to  hold  her  up.  She  died 
eight  or  nine  months  after  they'd  quarreled.  Meb- 
be  she'd  hev  died  anyhow,  but  thet  sorter  hastened 
it  up.  When  folks  is  consumpshony  it  don't  take 
much  to  set  'em  off." 


154  LOUISIANA. 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  '  consumpshony,'  "  said 
Louisiana. 

"  Lord-a-massy,  no!"  briskly,  "an'  ye'd  best 
not  begin  to  think  it.  I  wasn't  a  meanin'  thet. 
Ye've  kinder  got  into  a  poor  way  steddyin'  'bout 
yere  pappy,  an'  it's  tellin'  on  ye.  Ye  look  as  if 
thar  wasn't  a  thing  of  ye — an'  ye  don't  take  no  in- 
t'russ.  Ye'd  oughter  stir  round  more." 

"  I'm  going  to  'stir  round'  a  little  as  soon  as 
Jake  brings  the  buggy  up,"  said  Louisiana.  "  I'm 
going  out." 

"  Whar?" 

" Toward  town." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Nance  looked  at  her  charge 
steadily,  but  aflength  her  feelings  were  too  much 
for  her.  She  had  been  thinking  this  matter  over 
for  some  time. 

"Louisianny,"  she  said,  "you're  a-gwine  to  the 
grave-yard,  thet's  whar  ye're  a-gwine  an'  thar  aint 
no  sense  in  it.  Young  folks  hedn't  ought  to  hold 
on  to  trouble  thataway — 'taint  nat'ral.  They  don't 
gin'rally.  Elbert  'd  be  ag'in  it  himself  ef  he  know- 
eci — all'  I  s'pose  he  does.  Like  as  not  him  an' 
lanthy's  a-worryin'  about  it  now,  an'  Lord  knows 
ef  they  air  it'll  spile  all  their  enjoyment.  King 
dom  come  won't  be  nothin'  to  'em  if  they're  on- 
easy  in  their  minds  'bout  ye.  Now  an'  ag'in  it's 


A   LEAF.  155 

'peared  to  me  that  mebbe  harps  an'  crowns  an*  the 
company  o'  'postles  don't  set  a  body  up  all  in  a 
minnit  an'  make  'em  forgit  their  flesh  an'  blood  an' 
nat'ral  feelin's  teetotally — an'  it  kinder  troubles 
me  to  think  o'  Elbert  an'  lanthy  worryin'  an'  not 
havin'  no  pleasure.  Seems  to  me  ef  I  was  you  I'd 
think  it  over  an'  try  to  cheer  up  an'  take  int'russ. 
Jest  think  how  keerful  yer  pappy  an'  ma  was  on 
ye  an'  how  sot  they  was  on  hevin'  ye  well  an' 
happy." 

Louisiana  turned  toward  her.  Her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  whispered,  "  do  you — do  you  think 
they  know  ?  " 

Mrs.  Nance  was  scandalized. 

"  Know  !  "  she  echoed.  "  Wa-al  now,  Louisi- 
anny,  ef  I  didn't  know  yer  raisin',  an'  thet  ye'd 
been  brought  up  with  members  all  yer  life,  it'd  go 
ag'in  me  powerful  to  hear  ye  talk  thetaway.  Ye 
know  they  know,  an'  thet  they'll  take  it  hard,  ef 
they  aint  changed  mightily,  but,  changed  or  not, 
I  guess  thar's  mighty  few  sperrits  es  haint  sense 
enough  to  see  yer  a-grievin'  more  an'  longer  than's 
good  fur  ye." 

Louisiana  turned  to  her  window  again.  She 
rested  her  forehead  against  the  frame-work  and 


1 56  LOUISIANA. 

looked  out  for  a  little  while.  But  at  last  she 
spoke. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  said.  "It  is 
true  it  would  have  hurt  them  when  they  were 
here.  I  think — I'll  try  to — to  be  happier." 

"  It's  what'll  please  'em  best,  if  ye  do,  Louis- 
ianny,"  commented  Mrs.  Nance. 

"  I'll  try,"  Louisiana  answered.  "  I  will  go 
out  now — the  cold  air  will  do  me  good,  an-d  when 
I  come  back  you  will  see  that  I  am — better." 

"  Wa-al,"  advised  Mrs.  Nance,  "  ef  ye  go, 
mind  ye  put  on  a  plenty — an'  don't  stay  long." 

The  excellent  woman  stood  on  the  porch  when 
the  buggy  was  brought  up,  and  having  tucked 
the  girl's  wraps  round  her,  watched  her  driven 
away. 

"  Mebbe  me  a^speakin's  I  did'll  help  her,"  she 
said.  "  Seems  like  it  kinder  teched  her  an'  sot 
her  thinkin'.  She  was  dretfle  fond  of  her  pappy 
an'  she  was  allers  a  purty  peaceable  advise-takin' 
little  thing— though  she  aint  so  little  nuther. 
She's  reel  tall  an'  slim." 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 


IT  was  almost  dark  when  the  buggy  returned. 
As  Jake  drove  up  to  the  gate  he  bent  forward  to 
look  at  something. 

"  Thar's  a  critter  hitched  to  the  fence,"  he  re 
marked.  "  'Taint  no  critter  from  round  yere.  I 
never  seen  it  afore." 

Mrs.  Nance  came  out  upon  the  porch  to  meet 
them.  She  was  gently  excited  by  an  announce 
ment  she  had  to  make. 

"  Louisianny,"  she  said,  "  thar's  a  man  in  the 
settin'-room.  He's  a-waitin'  to  see  ye.  I  ask 
ed  him  ef  he  hed  anything  to  sell,  an'  he  sed  no 
he  hedn't  nothin'.  He's  purty  £r;/-teel  an'  sty 
lish,  but  not  to  say  showy,  an'  he's  polite  sort  o' 
manners." 

"  Has  he  been  waiting  long  ?  "  Louisiana  asked. 

"  He's  ben  thar  half  a  hour,  an'  I've  hed  the 
fire  made  up  sence  he  come." 


158  LOUISIANA. 

Louisiana  removed  her  hat  and  cloak  and  gave 
them  to  Mrs.  Nance.  '  She  did  it  rather  slowly, 
and  having  done  it,  crossed  the  hall  to  the  sitting- 
room  door,  opened  it  and  went  in. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room  but  the  light  of 
the  wood  fire,  but  that  was  very  bright.  It  was 
so  bright  that  she  had  not  taken  two  steps  into 
the  room  before  she  saw  clearly  the  face  of  the 
man  who  waited  for  her. 

It  was  Laurence  Ferrol. 

She  stopped  short  and  her  hands  fell  at  her 
sides.  Her  heart  beat  so  fast  that  she  could  not 
speak. 

His  heart  beat  fast,  too,  and  it  beat  faster  still 
when  he  noted  her  black  dress  and  saw  how  pale 
and  slight  she  looked  in  it.  He  advanced  to 
wards  her  and  taking  her  hand  in  both  his,  led 
her  to  a  chair. 

11  I  have  startled  you  too  much,"  he  said. 
"  Don't  make  me  feel  that  I  was  wrong  to  come. 
Don't  be  angry  with  me." 

She  let  him  seat  her  in  the  chair  and  then  he 
stood  before  her  and  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

"  It  was  rather — sudden,"  she  said,  "  but  I  am 
not — angry." 

There  was  a  silence  of  a  few  seconds,  because 
he  was  so  moved  by  the  new  look  her  face  wore 


HE  KNEW   THAT  I  LOVED    YOU.         159 

that  he  could  not  easily  command  his  voice  and 
words. 

"Have  you  been  ill?"  he  asked  gently,  at 
last. 

He  saw  that  she  made  an  effort  to  control  her 
self  and  answer  him  quietly,  but  before  she  spoke 
she  gave  up  even  the  effort.  She  did  not  try  to 
conceal  or  wipe  away  the  great  tears  that  fell 
down  her  cheeks  as  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"  No,  I  have  not  been  ill,"  she  said.  "  My 
father  is  dead." 

And  as  she  uttered  the  last  words  her  voice 
sank  almost  into  a  whisper. 

Just  for  a  breath's  space  they  looked  at  each 
other  and  then  she  turned  in  her  chair,  laid  her 
arm  on  the  top  of  it  and  her  face  on  her  arm,  with 
a  simple  helpless  movement. 

"He  has  been  dead  three  months,"  she  whis 
pered,  weeping. 

His  own  eyes  were  dim  as  he  watched  her.  Pie 
had  not  heard  of  this  before.  He  walked  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room  and  back  again  twice. 
When  he  neared  her  the  last  time  he  stopped. 

"  Must  I  go  away  ?"  he  asked  unsteadily.  "  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  no  right  here." 

But  she  did  not  tell  him  whether  he  must  go  or 
stay. 


1 66  LOUISIANA. 

"  If  I  stay  I  must  tell  you  why  I  came  and  why 
I  could  not  remain  away,"  he  said. 

She  still  drooped  against  her  chair  and  did  not 
speak,  and  he  drew  still  nearer  to  her. 

"  It  does  not  seem  the  right  time,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  must  tell  you  even  if  I  go  away  at  once 
afterwards.  I  have  never  been  happy  an  hour 
since  we  parted  that  wretched  day.  I  have  never 
ceased  to  think  of  what  I  had  begun  to  hope  for. 
I  felt  that  it  was  useless  to  ask  for  it  then — I  feel 
as  if  it  was  useless  now,  but  I  must  ask  for  it. 
Oh  !  "  desperately,  "  how  miserably  I  am  saying 
it  all  !  How  weak  it  sounds  !  " 

In  an  instant  he  was  kneeling  on  one  knee  at 
her  side  and  had  caught  her  hand  and  held  it  be 
tween  both  his  own. 

"  I'll  say  the  simplest  thing,"  he  said.  "  I  love 
you.  Everything  is  against  me,  but  I  love  you 
and  I  am  sure  I  shall  never  love  another  woman." 

He  clasped  her  hand  close  and  she  did  not  draw 
it  away. 

"Won't  you  say  a  word  to  me?"  he  asked. 
"  If  you  only  tell  me  that  this  is  the  wrong  time 
and  that  I  must  go  away  now,  it  will  be  better 
than  some  things  you  might  say." 

She  raised  her  face  and  let  him  see  it. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it  is  not  that  it  is  the  wrong 


HE  KNEW  THAT  I  LOVED    YOU.         l6l 

time.  It  is  a  better  time  than  any  other,  because  I 
am  so  lonely  and  my  trouble  has  made  rny  heart 
softer  than  it  was  when  I  blamed  you  so.  It  is 
not  that  it  is  the  wrong  time,  but — 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  broke  in.  '"  Don't — don't 
do  me  an  injustice  !  " 

He  could  not  have  said  anything  else  so  likely 
to  reach  her  heart.  She  remembered  the  last  fal 
tering  words'  she  had  heard  as  she  bent  over  the 
pillow  when  the  sun  was  shining  on  the  golden 
tree  with  the  wind  waving  its  branches. 

"  Don't  do  no  one  a  onjestice,  honey — don't  ye 
— do  no  one  — a  onjestice." 

u  Oh,"  she  cried  out,  "  he  told  me  that  I  must 
not — he  told  me,  before  he  died  !  " 

"What  !  "  said  Ferrol.  "  He  told  you  not  to 
be  unjust  to  me  ?  '' 

"  It  was  you  he  meant,"  she  answered.  "  He 
knew  I  had  been  hard  to  you — and  he  knew 
I- 

She  cowered  down  a  little  and  Ferrol  folded  her 
in  his  arms. 

"  Don't  be  hard  to  me  again,"  he  whispered. 
"  I  have  been  so  unhappy — I  love  you  so  tender 
ly.  Did  he  know  that  you — speak  to  me,  Louise." 

She  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 


1 62  LOUISIANA. 

"  He  knew  that  I  loved  you,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  sob. 

She  was  a  great  favorite  among  her  husband's 
friends  in  New  York  the  next  year.  One  of  her 
chief  attractions  for  them  was  that  she  was  a  "  new 
type."  They  said  that  of  her  invariably  when 
they  delighted  in  her  and  told  each  other  how 
gentle  she  was  and  how  simple  and  sweet.  The 
artists  made  "  studies"  of  her,  and  adored  her, 
and  were  enthusiastic  over  her  beauty ;  while 
among  the  literary  ones  it  was  said,  again  and 
again,  what  a  foundation  she  would  be  for  a  hero 
ine  of  the  order  of  those  who  love  and  suffer  for 
love's  sake  and  grow  more  adorable  through  their 
pain. 

But  these,  of  course,  were  only  the  delightful 
imaginings  of  art,  talked  over  among  themselves, 
and  Louisiana  did  not  hear  of  them.  She  was 
very  happy  and  very  busy.  There  was  a  gay  joke 
current  among  them  that  she  was  a  most  tremen 
dous  book-worm,  and  that  her  literary  knowledge 
was  something  for  weak,  ordinary  mortals  to  quail 
before.  The  story  went,  that  by  some  magic  pro 
cess  she  committed  to  memory  the  most  appalling 
works  half  an  hour  after  they  were  issued  from 


HE  KNEW  THAT  I  LOVED    YOU.        163 

the  press,  and  that,  secretly,  Laurence  stood  very 
much  in  awe  of  her  and  was  constantly  afraid  of 
exposing  his  ignorance  in  her  presence.  It  was 
certainly  true  that  she  read  a  great  deal,  and 
showed  a  wonderful  aptness  and  memory,  and 
that  Laurence's  pride  and  delight  in  her  were  the 
strongest  and  tenderest  feelings  of  his  heart. 

Almost  every  summer  they  spent  in  North 
Carolina,  filling  their  house  with  those  of  their 
friends  who  would  most  enjoy  the  simple  quiet 
of  the  life  they  led.  There  \vere  numberless  pic 
tures  painted  among  them  at  such  times  and  num 
berless  new  "types"  discovered. 

"  But  you'd  scarcely  think,"  it  was  said  some 
times,  "  that  it  is  here  that  Mrs.  Laurence  is  on 
her  native  heath." 

And  though  all  the  rest  of  the  house  was  open, 
there  was  one  room  into  which  no  one  but 
Laurence  and  Louisiana  ever  went — a  little  room, 
with  strange,  ugly  furniture  in  it,  and  bright- 
colored  lithographs  upon  the  walls. 


END. 


BY 

FRANCES    HODGSON    BURNETT, 

Author   of  "THAT   LASS   O'LOWRIE'S." 


One  Vol.  12mo,  Illustrated,      ------      Price,  $1.:0. 

The  publication  of  a  new  novel  from  Mrs.  Burnett's  pen  has  become  an 
event  of  more  than  ordinary  moment,  both  to  the  critics  and  the  public; 
and  HAWORTH'S  fulfills  the  best  anticipations  of  both.  It  is  in  the 
direct  line  of  development  of  the  author's  strongest  traits,  and  marks  a 
higher  point  than  was  reached  even  in  the  best  passages  of  her  first  story. 


CRITIC  AT.     NOTICES. 

<•'  ffawo  rifts  h  a  product  of  genius  of  a  very  high  order — *a  piece  of 
work  which  will  hold  a  permanent  place  in  literature  ;  one  of  those  mas 
terly  performances  that  rise  wholly  above  the  plane  of  light  literature  upon 
which  novels  are  generally  placed." — Evening  Post. 

"  It  is  but  faint  praise  to  speak  of  Haivortlis  as  merely  a  good  novel. 
It  is  one  of  the  few  great  novels.  .  .  .  As  a  story,  it  is  alive  through 
out  with  a  thrilling  interest  which  does  not  flag  from  beginning  to  end, 
and,  besides  the  story,  there  is  in  it  a  wonderfully  clever  study  of  human 
nature." — Hartford  Courant. 

kt  Ifaiu jrttis  will  unquestionably  be  acknowledged  one  of  the  great 
literary  achievements  of  the  day.  The  chief  feature  is  its  intense  dramatic 
power.  It  consists  almost  wholly  of  vividly-presented  pictures,  which  so 
impress  themselves  on  the  mind  of  the  reader,  that  the  effect  is  more  that 
of  seeing  the  story  acted  than  of  reading  it." — Boston  Post. 

u  Conversation  and  incident  move  naturally  and  with  perfect  freedom, 
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of  plot.  .  .  .  The  handsome  illustrations  are  in  tone  and  keeping 
with  the  spirit  of  the  book." — Buffalo  Courier. 

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Every  character  is  cut  with  the  distinctness  of  a  cameo,  and  every  one  is 
unique.  .  .  .  The  art  of  the  volume  is  perfect.  Every  word  is  needed 
to  effect  the  result.  The  pictures  fit  into  one  another.  The  whole  is  a 
faultless  mosaic." — Albany  Argus. 


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CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


nT*e   "best    original    novel    tltxt   kas    appeared  in  thu  Country  for 
9**rs."  -PHIL.  PRKSS. 


THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIB'S. 

Bv  FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT. 


PRESS      NOTICES 

"The  publication  of  a  story  like  'That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's '  is  a  red-letter  day  ia 
tfje  world  of  literature."— N.  V.  Herald. 

"We  know  of  no  more  powerful  work  from  a  woman's  hand  in  th« 

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household." — Baltimore  Bulletin. 

"Unlike  most  of  the  current  works  of  fiction,  this  novel  is  a  study.  It  cannot  b« 
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BOOK 

HF  the  Author  of  "That  L,ass  o»  Lowrle'».»» 


SURLY    TIM 

AND    OTHER    STORIES. 

by  MRS.  FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT, 

Author  of  "  That  Lass  o"  Loicrie's." 


One   volume,   small    i2mo.     Cloth  extra,  $1.25. 


The  volume  includes  eight  of  Mrs.  Burnett's  shorter  stories  which  TVAVI 
appeared  in  the  magazines  during  the  last  few  years.  It  is  needless  to  say 
that  these  have  been  among  the  most  popular  tales  that  have  lately  been 
written.  Si*rly  7*i//t  (told  in  Lancashire  dialect),  which  gives  the  title 
to  the  book,  is  perhaps  better  known  than  any  short  story  yet  published 
in  SCRIBNER'S. 

The  present  collection,  including  EsmeraUa,  Lodtisky,  Le  Monsieur 
de  la  Petite  Dame,  etc.,  shows  that  the  author  can  be  successful  in  other 
scenes  than  those,  the  treatment  of  which  has  gained  her  so  much  critical 
praise  and  such  wide  popularity. 

CRITICAL    NOTICES. 

"They  are  powerful  and  pathetic  stories,  aiu"  «vill  touch  the  sympathies  of  all  readers." 
—  The  Cominontveallli,  l>oston. 

"A  good  service  has  been  rendered  to  all  lovers  of  good  fiction  by  the  publication  ol 
these  stories  in  this  permanent  form."' — The  livening  Mail. 

Mrs.  Burnett  has  made  for  herself  a  reputation  which  places  her  in  the  front  rank  ol 
lemale  novelists." — The  Baptist  Weekly. 

"The  authoress  has  taken  her  place  as  one  of  the  best  novelists  of  our  time,  and  these 
Stories  are  interesting  as  showing  the  steps  up  which  she  has  ascended  to  her  acknow 
ledged  eminence." — The  Advance. 

'  Kach  of  these  narratives  have  a  distinct  spirit,  and  can  be  profitably  read  by  all 
classes  of  people.  They  are  told  not  only  w;th  true  art  but  with  deep  pathos." — Bostitt 
Post. 

"The  stories  collected  in  the  present  volume  are  uncommonly  vigorous  and  truthful 
ttorics  of  human  nature." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Kach  story  is  very  readable,  and  the  whole  volume  will  b«  well  received  as  it  well 
deserves."—  The  Chi.  Instructor,  Phil*. 


%*  The  above  book  /or  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  mill  be  sent,  post  or  exfrtU 
arges  paid,  utcn  receipt  of  the  price  by  the  publishers, 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK 


OLD   CREOLE  DAYS 


11Y 


GEORGE   W.  CABLE. 

One   Volume,   16xno,   extra  cloth,        -        -  $1.OO. 


Mr.  Cable's  sketches  of  life  in  the  old  French  quarter  of  New  Orleans 
display  a  freshness  and  originality,  an  insight  into  the  character  of  the 
mixed  races  there,  and  a  faculty  of  seizing  on  the  picturesque  phases  of 
lifa  among  these  oddly  contrasted  people,  that  give  them  an  importance 
far  above  their  value  as  a  mere  collection  of  clever  stories.  "'Sieur 
George,"  "  Madame  Delicieuse,''  "  Jean-ah  Poquelin,"  and  ''The  Belles 
Demoiselles'  Plantation,"  are  some  of  the  stories  included — carrying  even 
in  their  titles  some  of  their  quaint  attractiveness. 

CRITICAL    NOTICES. 

•'It  is  very  seldom  indeed  that  we  meet  with  a  book  so  distinctly  marking:  the  advent 
of  a  writer  of  high  artistic  power  and  fresh  observation,  as  this  of  Mr.  Cable's.  After 
re-reading  carefully,  and  with  the  keenest  enjoyment,  the  stories  now  collected  under  one 
heading,  we  not  only  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  their  author  a  genius  with  special 
and  captivating  endowments,  but  we  feel  it  an  imperative  critical  duty  to  so  declare  him." 

—  Boston  Courier. 

"  Mr.  Cable  has  the  rare  gift  of  keen  observation  united  to  great  descriptive  power. 
.  .  .  He  has  portrayed  the  character  of  the  remnant  of  France  stranded  on  a  foreign 
shore,  in  so  many  aspects,  that  the  reader  gains  a  most  perfect  id--a  of  the  strange  com 
pound  of  courtesy  and  selfishness,  of  grace  and  untruthfu  ness,  of  bravery  and  cunning, 
which  that  character  presents.  .  .  The  stories,  themselves,  display  air-inventive  genius 
which  ranks  the  author  among  the  best  of  our  modern  writers."  —  Christian  Intt  lligencer. 

"These  charming  stories  attract  attention  and  commendation  by  their  quaint  delicacy 
of  style,  their  faithful  delineation  o!  Creole  character,  and  a  marked  originality.  The 
caretul  rendering  of  the  dialect  reveals  patient  study  of  living  models  ;  and  to  any  reader 
whose  ear  is  accustomed  to  the  broken  Knglish,  as  heard  in  the  parts  of  our  city  every 
day,  its  truth  to  nature  is  striking." — New  Orleans  Picayune. 

"  Here  is  true  art  work.  Here  is  poetry,  pathos,  tragedy,  humor.  Here  is  an  entranc 
ing  style.  Here  is  a  new  field,  one  full  of  passion  and  beauty.  Here  is  local  color  with 
strong  drawing.  Here,  in  this  little  volume,  is  life,  breath,  and  blood.  The  author  of 
this  book  is  an  artist,  and  over  such  a  revelation  one  may  be  permitted  strong  words." 

—  Cincinnati  Tunes, 

"To  a  keen  zest  for  what  is  antique  and  picturesque,  Mr.  Cable  adds  a  surprising 
skill,  for  so  young  a  writer,  in  conceiving  and  developing  a  plot.  .  .  .  He  has  ren 
dered  very  finely  the  attractive  childlike  quality  so  often  seen  among  men  of  Latin  races, 
and  as  to  his  women,  they  are  .'*s  delightful  as  the  scent  of  the  flowers  which  he  mentions 
every  now  and  then." — N.  Y.  Times. 

"  The  seven  sketches  which  compose  this  bright  little  volume  are  full  of  a  delicate  pathetic 
kumor  which  has  rarely  been  equaled  in  American  Literature." — Dttroit  Free  Press. 

':  The-.s  half-pathetic,  half-humorous,  and  altogether  delicate  sketches,  constitute 
extremeiy  good  literature.  .  .  .  There  is  the  touch  of  a  true  artist  in  them." — Kv.  Pout. 

"  These  stories  contain  a  most  attractive  blending  of  vivid  descriptions  of  local  scenery 
nth  admirable  delineations  of  personal  character." — CoHgregationalist. 


*^*  The    above    book  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent,  prepaid,  upon 
receipt  of  price,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS,  PUBLISHERS, 

743  ANf>  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK 


LIFE  AND   LETTERS   OF 

MADAME   BONAPARTE. 

BY    E.     L.    DIDIER. 


i  Volume,  lamo,  Cloth.     With  Portrait,         -         $1.50. 


The  remarkable  career  of  Madame  Bonaparte,  which  ended  at  Balti 
more,  in  April  of  this  year,  possessed  features  which  make  it  as  interesting 
as  a  romance.  Few  of  the  present  generation,  when  they  read  in  the 
daily  papers  the  notice  of  the  death,  at  the  great  age  of  ninety-four,  of  this 
brilliant,  fascinating,  and  once  dazzlingly  beautiful  woman,  realized  what 
a  long  and  varied  series  of  events  had  been  comprised  in  her  life.  The 
account  of  Elizabeth  Patterson's  marriage,  at  eighteen,  to  Jerome  Bona 
parte,  the  brother  of  Napoleon;  of  her  desertion  by  her  husband  at 
Napoleon's  order,  and  of  the  ambitious  woman's  long  and  determined 
struggle  for  her  rights,  make  up  a  sufficiently  eventful  story. 

But  the  wonderfully-  full  and  varied  character  of  Madame  Bonaparte's 
life  is  only  fully  appreciated  when  it  is  remembered  that  all  this  had  hap 
pened  before  she  was  thirty;  that  after  the  Restoration  she  was  still  to 
spend  years  of  brilliant  social  success,  in  different  parts  of  Europe,  among 
the  most  prominent  people  of  the  time. 

A  great  number  of  her  letters,  covering  portions  of  her  life  as  fully 
as  a  diary,  have  come  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Eugene  L.  Diclier, 
who  has  been  for  several  years  a  special  student  of  everything  bearing 
upon  Madame  Bonaparte's  career,  and  has  had  every  advantage  for  making 
a  thorough  biographical  study.  In  her  correspondence  her  opinions  are 
expressed  with  a  peculiar  candor  ;  and  the  cynical  frankness  with  which 
she  avows  her  ambitions  and  motives,  the  pungency  of  her  comments  upon 
the  people  about  her,  and  the  accuracy  of  her  judgments,  as  they  are  found 
in  these  pages,  show  clearly  the  sharp  outlines  of  her  singular  character. 

The  publishers  have  had  the  privilege  of  consulting  Mr.  Charles 
Bonaparte,  of  Baltimore,  in  regard  to  the  publication  of  the  volume,  and, 
while  he  is  in  no  sense  responsible  for  any  portion  of  the  book,  they  are 
indebted  to  him  for  very  valuable  suggestions  and  criticisms. 

The  biography  will  be  illustrated  with  a  copy  of  Gilbert  Stuart's 
beautiful  portrait  of  Madame  Bonaparte  at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  giving 
three  different  views  of  the  face  on  the  same  canvas. 


***  The  above  book  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or   will  be  sent,  post  or  exprett 
tirges  paid,  upon  receipt  of  price^  by  the  publishers, 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


The    best    Biography    of   the    Greatest    of  the    Romans. 


C  JE  S  A  R  :     A    SKETCH. 

BY 
JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE,  M.A. 

One    vol.,    8vo,    cloth,   -with    a    Steel    Portrait    and    a    Map. 
Price,  $2.50. 


There  is  no  historical  writer  of  our  time  who  can  rival  Mr.  Froude  in  vivid 
delineation  of  character,  grace  and  clearness  of  style  and  elegant  and  solid 
scholarship.  In  his  Xi/e  of  Ccesar,  all  these  qualities  appear  in  their  fullest 
perfection,  resulting  in  a  fascinating  narrative  which  will  be  read  with  keen 
dslight  by  a  multitude  cf  readers,  and  will  enhance,  if  possible,  Mr.  Froude's 
brilliant  reputation. 


CRITICAL    NOTICES. 

"  The  book  is  charmingly  written,  and,  on  the  whole,  wisely  written.  There  are  many 
admirable,  really  noble,  passages  ;  there  are  hundreds  of  pages  which  few  living  men 
could  match.  *  *  *  The  political  life  of  Caesar  is  explained  wiih  singular  lucidity, 
and  with  what  seems  to  us  remarkable  fairness.  The  horrible  condition  of  Roman 
society  under  the  rule  of  the  magnates  is  painted  with  starting  power  and  brilliance  i-f 
coloring. — A tlantic  Monthly. 

"  Mr.  Froude's  latest  work,  "  Caesar,"  is  affluent  of  his  most  distinctive  traits. 
Nothing  that  he  has  written  is  more  brilliant,  more  incisive,  more  interesting.  *  *  * 
He  combines  into  a  compact  and  nervous  narrative  all  that  is  known  of  the  per.-onal. 
social,  political,  and  military  life  of  Caesar  ;  and  with  his  sketch  of  Caesar,  includes  other 
brilliant  sketches  of  the  great  men,  his  friends  or  rivals,  who  contemporaneously  with 
him  formed  the  principal  figures  in  the  Roman  world." — Harper's  Monthly. 

"This  book  is  a  most  fascinating  biography,  and  is  by  far  the  best  account  of  Julius 
Caesar  to  be  found  in  the  English  language." — London  Standard. 

"  It  is  the  best  biography  of  the  greatest  of  the  Romans  we  have,  and  it  is  in  some 
respects  Mr.  Froude's  best  piece  of  historical  writing." — Hartford  Courant. 

Mr.  Froude  has  given  the  public  the  best  of  all  recent  books  on  the  life,  character 
and  career  of  Julius  Ciesar." — Fhila.  Eve.  Bulletin. 


%*    For   sale    by  all.  booksellers,  or  will   be   sent,  prepaid,  upon 
receipt  of  price ',  by 

CHARLES   SCRTBNER'S    SONS, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


the  Way* 


A  VOLUME  OF  SHORT  POEMS, 

BY 

MARY     MAPES     DODGE, 

Editor  of  St.  Nicholas. 


One    volume,    square   12mo,    $1;   extra   cloth,      -        -        $1.5O. 

The  most  ardent  admirer  of  Mrs.  Dodge's  previous  works  can  hardly 
be  prepared  for  the  new  wealth  of  the  present  volume.  These  poems  are 
baautiful  in  thought  and  workmanship,  and  evince  a  wonderful  power  and 
range  of  poetic  faculty.  As  a  collection  of  short  poems,  it  is  unlike  any 
thing  that  has  preceded  it,  and  deserves  to  be  classed  in  the  small  list  of 
those  books  of  song  that  belong  to  the  ^daily  life  of  the  people,  and  go 
straight  to  the  popular  heart. 


CRITICAL.     NOTICES. 

"  A  handsome  little  volume  of  over  100  pages  of  bright,  clear  print,  fairly  rippling  with 
laughing  carols  and  glad  songs.  T.'iere  is  a  breeze-like  freshness  in  the  poetry  of  thir 
writer  that  stimulates  without  palling  on  the  taste,  and  is  buoyant  without  being  light  in 
worth.  There  is  the  breath  of  spring  in  every  poem,  and  the  sparkle  and  puiity  ot  dew 
in  every  thought  expressed." — Indianapolis  Journal. 

"Mrs.  Mapes  Dodge  sings  as  naturally  as  the  bobolink  or  nightingale,  and  enjoys 
an  equal  delight  with  them  in  the  flowery  meadow  arid  the  blossoming  orchard.  She  has 
listented  to  the  voice  of  the  grass  and  the  trees,  the  airy  tongues  of  the  mountain  stream, 
and  writes  down  the  artless  melodies  which  she  has  heard  from  the  stars  and  the  sea. 
Her  poetry  betrays  a  deep  sympathy  with  human  life  as  well  as  with  external  nature." 

— N.  Y.   Tribune. 

"  Reading  the  poems  one  discovers  in  their  construction  and  in  the  dexterous  play 
of  fancy  which  inspires  them,  the  s:uno  winning  cleverness  that  marks  the  author's 
appeals  to  child  nature  ;  but  with  it  lie  finds  also  ;i  ..l':ptli  of  poetic  feeling,  the  manifesta 
tion  of  which  is  rarely  possible  1:1  juvenile  literature." — .'V.  }'.  J^eiiing  Past. 

"  It  need  scarcely  be  ad. led  that  they  are  full  of  charm,  tender  in  feeling,  graceful 
in  versification,  and  genuinely  poetic  in  fancy  and  imagination.  Those  verses  dealing 
essentially  with  child  life  and  child  aspirations  have  a  delicacy  of  sentiment  peculiar  to 
Mrs.  Dodge  alone  among  all  who  sing  on  similar  subjects." — Boston  Saturday  Evening 
Gazette. 


"The  poems  are  full  of  grace  and  melody,  imaginative  and   refined  in    expression.' 

— ttaltimore  Gazette. 


*.»"-   For   sale   by   all   booksellers,    or   sent   post-paid    upon    receipt    of 
price,    bv 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

Nos.  743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


The    Boy's   Froissart. 

EDITED  WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 
By     SIDNEY      LANIER. 

WITH      ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    ALFRED    KAPPES. 

One  Volume,  crown.  Svo,  extra  cloth,     -       $3.OO. 

"  As  you  read  of  the  fair  knights  and  the  foul  knights — for  Froissart  tells  of 
bv'/i — it  cannot  but  occur  to  you  that  some/ton'  it  seems  harder  to  be  a  good  knight 
now-a-days  thiin  it  was  then  .  .  .  Nevert/ieless  the  same  qualities  wliich  made 
a  man  ful fighter  then,  make  one  71010.  To  speak  the  verv  truth,  to  perform  a  promise 
to  the  utmost,  ti>  reverence  all  women,  to  maintain  right  and  honesty,  to  help  the 
weak  ;  to  treat  hi^h  and  low  with  courtesy,  to  be  constant  to  one  love,  to  be  fair  to  a 
bitter  foe,  to  despise  luxury,  to  pursue  simplicity,  modesty  and  gentleness  in  heart 
and  bearing,  this  -axis  in  the  oath  of  the  young  knight  711/10  took  the  stroke  upon  him 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  and  this  is  still  the  way  to  win  love  and  glory  in  the 
nineteenth^ — EXTRACT  FROM  THE  PREFACE. 


CRITICAL,     NOTICES. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  Sir  John  Froissart  should  not  become  as  well  known  to 
young  readers  as  Robinson  Crusoe  himself." — Literary  World. 

"Though  Mr.  Lanier  calls  his  edition  of  Froissart  a  book  for  boys,  it  is  a  book  for 
men  as  well,  and  many  there  be  of  the  latter  who  will  enjoy  its  pages." — N.  Y,  live.  Mail. 

"  We  greet  this  book  with  positive  enthusiasm,  feeling  that  the  presentation  of 
Froissart  in  a  shape-  so  tempting  to  youth  is  a  particularly  worthy  task,  particularly  well 
done."— A7".  Y.  live.  Post. 

"The  book  is  romantic,  poetical,  and  full  of  the  real  adventure  which  is  so  much 
more  wholesome,  than  the  sham  which  fills  so  much  of  the  stimulating  juvenile  literature 
of  the  day." — Detroit  F  ree  Press. 

"That  boy  will  be  lucky  who  gets  Mr.  Sidney  Lanier* s  '  Boy's  Froissart'  for  a 
Christmas  present  this  year.  There  is  no  better  and  healthier  reading  for  boys  than  '  Fine 
Sir  John  ;  '  and  this  volume  is  so  handsome,  so  well  printed,  and  so  well  illustrated  that 
it  is  a  pleasure  to  look  it  over.1' — Nation. 

'k  Mr.  Sidney  Lanier,  in  editing  a  boy's  version  of  Froissart,  has  not  only  opened  to 
them  a  world  of  romantic  and  poetic  legend  of  the  chivalric  and  heroic  sort,  but  he  has 
given  them  something  which  ennobles  and  does  not  poison  the  mind.  Old  Froissart  was 
a  gentleman  every  inch  '.  he  hated  the  base,  the  cowardly,  the  paltry  ;  he  loved  the 
knightly,  the  heroic,  the  gentle,  and  this  spirit  breathes  through  all  his  chronicles.  There 
is  a  genuineness,  too,  about  his  writings  that  gives  them  a  literary  value." 

— Baltimore  Gazette. 

"  In  his  work  of  editing  the  famous  knightly  chronicle  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  declared 
inspired  him  with  more  enthusiasm  than  even  poetry  itself,  Mr.  Lanier  has  shown, 
naturally,  a  warm  appreciativeness  and  also  a  nice  power  of  discrimination.  He  has 
culled  the  choicest  of  the  chronicles,  the  most  romantic,  and  at  the  same  time  most  com 
plete,  and  has  digested  them  into  an  orderly  compact  volume,  upon  which  the  publishers 
have  lavished  fir.e  paper,  presswork  and  binding,  and  that  is  illustrated  by  a  number  of 
cuts." — Philadelphia  Times, 


***  For   sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

Nos.  743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


The 

Letters  of  CbarlesDickens, 

Edited  by  his  Sister-in-Law  and  his  Eldest  Daughter. 
With  several  Fac- simile  Letters. 


Two  Volumes,  12mo,  cloth,     -  $3.OO. 

Parts  of  this  correspondence  record  Dickens's  experiences  from  day  to 
day  with  the  minuteness  of  a  diary,  introducing  the  most  capital  anecdotes 
and  inimitable  descriptions,  and  the  letters  have  naturally  aroused  an 
interest  which  hardly  anything  else  could  have  awakened,  unless  it  had 
been  a  posthumous  work  of  the  great  novelist.  Indeed,  the  correspondence 
is  actually  what  the  editors  say  in,  their  preface  that  they  have  tried  to 
make  it — "another  book  from  Charles  Dickens's  own  hands — a  portrait  of 
himself  by  himself."  Altogether,  the  letters  give  such  a  revelation  of 
the  man  as  nothing  else  could  give  so  well,  and  as  might  make  a  substitute 
for  any  biography.  

CRITICAL,  NOTICES. 

"Their  literary  merit  is  great  and  genuine;  they  are  freshly  and  spontaneously 
written  in  Kiiglish  that  is  clear  and  strong  and  unaffected  in  a  high  degree.  The  picture 
they  give  of  their  author  is  striking  and  singularly  pleasant.  They  bring  home  to  the 
reader  the  hill  force  of  his  personality,  in  -ill  its  richness  and  expansiveness,  its  indom 
itable  energy  and  splendid  self-consciousness,  its  elasticity  and  resolution,  the  irresistible 
authority  of  its  union  of  vigor  and  charm  ;  and  they  heighten  the  reader's  opinion  of  him 
as  a  private  man  and  as  a  man  of  genius." — Londo;t  A'thaueum. 

"  No  formal  portrait  could  be  half  so  vivid.  In  this  book,  which  was  never  intended 
to  be  a  book,  we  come  nearer  to  the  man  as  he  was,  than  any  biographer  could  have 
brought  us  .  .  .  The  letters  do  iv>t  show  us  Dickens  at  work,  but  Dickens  at  play, 
relieved  from  the  strain  of  facing  the  public,  and  tossing  off  the  impressions  of  the 
moment  for  the  sympathetic  appreciation  of  his  own  inner  circle.  The  editors  say  that 
no  man  ever  expressed  himself  mor  •  in  his  letters  than  Charles  Dickens.  No  man 
certainly  ever  expressed  a  livelier  or  more  considerate  friendship,  a  purer  affection,  or  a 
more  exhilarating  sense  of  the  ridiculous."  —  f<\>rt 'nightly  Review. 

"Some  of  the  new  letters  published  within  the  last  week  from  the  pen  of  Charles 
Dickens  are  amongst  the  most  amusing  compositions  in  the  English  language.  .  .  . 
They  fl.ish  Dickens  on  you  with  as  much  vigor  as  if  they  gave  you  a  glimpse  of  him  in  a 
magic-lantern." — Landau  Spectator. 

"That  bright  sparklmg  style,  that  tenderness  of  heart  and  fund  of  cheery  humoj; 
that  old,  keen,  hum'ir  ins  wav  of  oiiserv  ing  and  noting  things,  that  appreciation  of  and 
affection  for  hosts  of  friends,  which  we  already  knew  lobe  among  his  most  lovable  traits, 
are  to  be  yet  once  more  tasted  and  enjoyed  in  these  pages." — Literary  World. 

'"The  attractiveness  of  these  volumes  lies  in  their  free  and  natural  exhibition  of 
Mr.  Dickens's  mind  and  heart.  His  personality  saturates  them." — Congregationalist. 

'•  Of  three  things  noticeable  in  this  correspondence,  one  is  the  prevailing  cheerful 
ness  of  high  spirits.  .  .  .  The  other  two  noticeable  things  are  the  great  excellence 
flexibility  and  simpleness  of  style  from  the  very  first,  and  the  surprising  quantity  of  highly 
entertaining  epistolary  writing  produced  by  this  one  man." — Boston  Courier. 


*#*  For    sale    by*  all  booksellers,   or    sent  postpaid,    upon    receipt    of  price^ 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS, 

Nos.  743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


Da  J.  G.  HOLLAND'S 

POPULAR    NOVELS. 


Each  one  vol.,  i2mo,  cloth,  _  .         -        $i  75 

NICHOLAS    MINTURN: 

A  Study  in  a  Story.       Illustrated. 

"It  is  unquestionably  DR.  HOLLAND'S  ablest  production  The 
characters  are  sketched  by  a  master  hand,  the  incidents  are  realistic,  the 
progress  of  events  rapid,  and  the  tone  pure  and  healthy.  The  book  is 
superbly  illustrated."— Rock  Island  Union. 

"  Nicholas  Mint  urn  is  the  most  real  novel,  or  rather  life-story  yet 
produced  by  any  American  writer.  "—Philadelphia  Press. 


SEVENOAKS: 

A  Story  of  To- Day.     Illustrated. 

"  DR.  HOLLAND  has  added  a  leaf  to  his  laurels.  In  Scvenoaks,  he 
has  given  us  a  thoroughly  good  novel,  with  the  distinctive  qualities  of  a 
work  of  literary  art.  As  a  story,  it  is  thoroughly  readable;  the  action 
is  rapid,  but  not  hurried ;  there  is  no  flagging,  and  no  dullness." — 
Christian  Union. 


ARTHUR    BONNICASTLE: 

A  Story  of  American   Life.      Illustrated. 

"  The  narrative  is  pervaded  by  a  fine  poetical  spirit  that  is  alive  to 
the  subtle  graces  of  character,  as  well  as  to  the  tender  influences  of 
natural  scenes.  ...  Its  chief  merits  must  be  placed  in  its  graphic 
and  expressive  portraitures  of  character,  its  tenderness  and  delicacy  of 
sentiment,  its  touches  of  heartfelt  pathos,  and  the  admirable  wisdom  and 
soundness  of  its  ethical  suggestions."— A7'.  Y.  Tribune. 


*#*  The  above  books  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or   will  be  sent,  post  or  express 
fharges  paid,  upon  receipt  of  the  price,  bv 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS,  PUHMSHERS, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


.  The   charm   of   these    nearly   perfect   •toriea   lie*   In   their 
•xqulsite  simplicity  and  most  tender  humor." — PHILADELPHIA  TIME* 


RUDDER    GRANGE. 

By  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON. 


One  Volume,  IGtno,  Extra  Cloth,  attractive  bindings,  $1.2B» 


11  Humor  like  this  is  perennial."—  Washington  Post. 

tl  Mr.  Stockton  has  rare  gifts  for  this  style  of  writing,  and  has 
developed  in  these  papers  remarkable  genius." — Pittsburgh  Gazette. 

u  A  certain  humorous  seriousness  over  matters  that  are  not  serious 
surrounds  the  story,  even  in  its  most  indifferent  parts,  with  an  atmosphere, 
an  aroma  of  very  quaint  and  delightful  humor." — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

*'  Mr.  Stockton's  vein  of  humor  is  a  fresh  and  rich  one,  that  affords 
pleasure  to  mature  people  as  well  as  to  your?  ones.  Thus  far,  '  Rudder 
Grange  '  is  his  best  effort." — Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"  Rudder  Grange  is  an  ideal  book  to  take  into  the  country  for 
summer  reading." — Portland  Press. 

"  Rudder  Grange  is  really  a  very  delightful  piece  of  fooling,  but,  like 
all  fooling  that  is  worth  the  while,  it  has  point  and  purpose." — Phil. 
Telegraph. 

"The  odd  conceit  of  making  his  young  couple  try  their  hands  at 
house-keeping  first  in  an  old  canal  boat,  suggests  many  droll  situations, 
which  the  author  improves  with  a  frolicsome  humor  that  is  all  his  own." 
—  Worcester  Spy. 

**  There  is  in  these  chapters  a  rare  and  captivating  drollery.  .  .  . 
We  have  had  more  pleasure  in  reading  them  over  again  than  we  had  when 
they  first  appeared  in  the  magazine." — Congregationalist. 


***  Tht  abovt  book  for  talt  by  all  booksellers^  or  will  bt  tent^  frefaid^    ufon 
ift  of  frice^  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  PUBLISHERS, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK, 


A.     N1CW      VOLUME 

In  the  "Common  Sense  in  the  Household"  Series. 


THE  DINNER  YEAR-BOOK. 

By    MARION    HARLAND, 

Author  of  "  COMMON  SKNSE  IN  THTJ  HOUSEHOLD,"  "  BREAKFAST, 
LUNCHEON,  AND  TEA,"  etc.,  etc. 


WITH  SIX  ORIGINAL  FULL-PAGE  COLORED  PLATES. 
One  vol.  12mo,  72O  pages,  beautifully  bound  in  cloth.    Price  $2.26, 

KITCHEN  EDITION  IN  OIL-CLOTH  COVERS  AT  SAME  PRICK. 


THE  DINNER  YEAR  BOOK  is,  in  its  name,  happily  descriptive  of  its  purposes  and  char 
acter.  It  occupies  a  place  which,  amid  all  the  publications  upon  cookery — and  their 
name  is  Legion — has  never  yet  been  occupied. 

The  author  tmly  says  that  there  have  been  dinner- giving  books  published,  that  is, 
books  of  menus  for  company  (linings,  "  Little  Dinners,"  for  especial  occasions,  etc.,  etc. ; 
but  that  she  has  never  yet  met  with  a  practical  directory  of  this  important  meal 
for  every  day  in  the  year,  In  this  volume  site  has  furnished  the  programme 
in  all  its  details,  and  has  superintended  the  preparation  of  each  dish,  proceeding  even  to 
the  pioper  manner  of  serving  it  at  table.  The  book  has  been  prepared  for 
the  family,  for  the  home  of  ordinary  means,  and  it  has  hit  the 
happy  line  where  elegance  and  economy  meet. 

The  most  numerous  testimonials  to  tht:  value  of  Marion  Harland's  "Common  Sense" 
books  which  the  publishers  have  received,  both  in  newspaper  notices  and  in  private 
communications,  are  to  the  effect — always  expressed  with  some  astonishment — that  the 
directions  of  these  receipts,  actually  followed,  produce  the  prom 
ised  result.  We  can  prophesy  the  sam*  for  the  new  volume. 

The  purchaser  will  find  that  he  has  bought  whnt  the  name  purports — The  Dinner 
Year-Book — a  practical  guide  for  the  purchase  of  the  material  and  preparation,  serving, 
«rc..  of  the  ordinary  home  dinner  for  every  day  of  the  year.  To  these  are  added 
1  •waive  company  dinners,  one  for  each  month,  from  which  a  selection  can  he 
inade — according  to  the  time  of  the  year — equal  to  any  occasion  which  wfll  L/e  presented 
In  the  housekeeper. 

This  book,  however,  is  not  valuable  merely  as  a  directory  for  dinners  appropriate  to 
Carious  seasons.  It  contains  the  largest  number  of  receipts  for  soups,  fish, 
ireat.  vegetables,  entrees  of  all  descriptions,  and  desserts,  ever  offered  to  the 
American  public.  The  material  for  this  work  has  been  collected  with  great  care 
both  at  home  and  abroad,  representing  the  diligent  labor  of  many  months.  A  very 
marked  feature  of  the  new  volume,  and  distinguishing  it  from  any  other  in  the  Aim  rican 
market,  is  its  series  of  beautiful  colored  plates,  the  entire  preparation  ol 
which  has  been  the  work  of  the  author's  own  hand. 


%*  Tke  above  books  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  senf,  post  or 
tk*rfes  faidt  upon  receipt  of  the  price  by  the  publishers, 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

743  \ND  745  BROADWAY    NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


4    $948 

!2)un'50BG 


NUV  £    ¥ 


DEC  8     tS 


RECTD  CD 


REC'D  LD 

JUL  3  1  1963 
DEC1 01965  8  4 

REC'D 

R5-5PM 

LOAN  DEPT. 
RECEIVED  BY 

JUN  1  9  19RS 

CWCUIATION  DEPT, 


D  21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


89  i  7 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


